


30 Day OTP Challenge

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blowing Things Up, Feels, Hallucinating, Holding Hands, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oops, Parties, Post-Reichenbach, Seb's POV, Shopping, TW: Blood, TW: implied suicide, Teenlock, Tiger!Seb, Tw: mild sexual harassment, a few other ships if you can find them in chapter 9, because come on they're Jim and Seb, fucking Carl Powers ffs, i'm not one for concealing ships?, more tags to be added along the way yay, of course you can find them they're pretty obvious, oh well, shapeshifter AU, tee hee, that was supposed to be cute wasn't it, wearing eachother's clothes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Will be posting a chapter every Monday. More notes at the bottom :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Will be posting a chapter every Monday. More notes at the bottom :)

It’s all gone terribly wrong.

 

One moment, you’re perfectly content, curled up on the couch by the fire as the snow outside gathers in big, white heaps on the curbs. The next, you get a message from you second-in-command.

 

_I fucked up. –SM_

 

After a few brief moments of sending texts back and forth, Jim is up and bustling about, throwing on warm clothes to meander through the storm that still rages on. He should never have sent Sebastian out in this weather for some stupid hit that would as well have been postponed until at least the snowflakes stopped cutting open exposed skin with the intensity of the wind. It shouldn’t have gone as far as how it had.

But it did.

Gritting his teeth, Jim closes- no time for locking up properly, the alarm will have to do, but who the _fuck_ goes out in this weather anyway?- the door behind him and hurries over to the car parked across the street. There are no tracks on the road, and no sign of the edge of the curb as he shuffles through the thick layer of snow, the cold slowly trickling through his shoes. Luckily, Dale is not afraid to drive in the snow, and is actually all too happy to have an opportunity to earn a fair sum of money for this small trip.

 

_The medics are on their way. Sit tight. –JMx_

 

His hands are already stone cold as he enters the car, shaking his head to get rid of the flakes stuck in his hair, he could reckon how utterly icy it must be on that damned rooftop, full in the drought. Jim sits, restless, hunched in his seat as he stares out over the white and empty streets of London, and he wished the asphalt beneath the tires of the car weren’t so incredibly slippery. They are going too slow to his liking in this particular situation, due to the chance of skidding and the wall of white that whirls around them, pulling at the vehicle. 

He much preferred the almost constant drizzling rain the clouds above the city would usually produce instead of these- albeit beautiful- smooth little crystals that cut through the air rather than descend from the clouds. But they’re on their way, and his medical team is housed closer to where Sebastian is then he himself is. In this situation, it would take about fifteen minutes to get there. That’s time enough, no need to worry. Besides, cold thickens blood where warmth adulterates it, no?

“Step on it.”

“Sir, I cannot possibly go any-“

 “I said,” Jim’s voice is as cold as the sneering wind beyond the warm confines of the car, “Step on it.”

The criminal can feel the engine roaring, protesting in still having to warm up after the past two days and nights of barely having been used. And he is almost somewhat content with the acceleration.

They have been advising people to stay inside as much as possible in every weather forecast that had been on the telly in the past 48 hours or so, to only go outside for the necessary grocery shopping, and with that to try and leave your car where it is parked. Of course Jim had to think it was alright to go through with the oncoming assassination. He could blame it on the beehive that was his mind, especially since this weather ruined most of his plans and forced him to postpone most meetings and even that brief trip to Milan. No planes were arriving at or leaving Heathrow. Code red, you could say. But it had not appeared as bad as it apparently is, so all had to go well, right?

 

_I was right in his crosshairs. –SM_

 

Jim heaves an impatient sigh, fumbling with his phone as they cross Trafalgar Square. Some daring children are throwing balls of loose snow at one another. _As if that will make such a difference, it’s not like they aren’t already drenched through._ He can take no comfort in the Christmas lights that have already been kindled behind thick windows despite the hour, it being so dark already due to the clouds that hang overhead.

 

_He saw me before I saw him. –SM_

 

A violent shiver ran down the dark-haired man’s spine as he exited the car as soon as it skidded to a stop along the curb of a six storey building, throwing the door shut without so much as a single instruction about proceedings to Dale. He’d wait, Jim was sure of that.

 

_I don’t think I’ll be making it home tonight. –SM_

 

For someone who doesn’t exactly exercise frequently, ascending six flights of stairs is a whole accomplishment on its own, and with his heart already beating frantically against his chest, Jim almost sees stars as he finally bursts through the final door and into the agonising cold again. Through the thick mist of whirling mass, Jim can barely even see his own feet when he looks down, but he stalks on, ploughing further through the blizzard. Eventually, a faint outline of a slumped heap of Sebastian comes in sight, accompanied by two medics trying their best to do what they can without using supplies that can drift off in the wind. Jim’s nose is cold, and every breath he takes stings in his lungs, still a little out of breath from his sprint. But he can see Sebastian better and better as he comes closer.

And with that, he can distinguish what the dark smudge beneath the blond man is.

From that distance, it seemed like a mere dark flick of paint against a canvas already clad in thick, dark winter clothes. But as he drew closer, it became obvious that it was crimson. Sebastian’s crimson. And it was the darkest, deadliest colour maroon he had ever seen. He had seen death, he had seen blood, mostly on a daily basis. Hell, that was his job. But this was undeniably the darkest colour red he had ever laid eyes on, and it settled a sharp shard of ice in his heart.

 

_How will you remember me? –SM_

 

Snow melts and trickles down his neck in icy beads of liquefied crystals, making him tremble and shudder almost constantly. Adrenaline kicks in as he drops himself to his knees in the soft blanket that hadn’t been melted by the maroon seeping from between Sebastian’s fingers where he clutches at the gash in his stomach. Jim paid no attention to the limp body that was pushed aside, now also leaking the colour of its life onto the gathered snowflakes. The medics went on undisturbed by Jim’s presence.

 

_You never say it. –SM_

 

Bright greens flicker up from once lidded eyelids, the medics having done a shit job at keeping the sniper awake. “Tiger,” Jim crooned quietly, the collar of his jacket pushing against his pink cheeks as he tilts his head at the wounded man. The rise and fall of Sebastian’s chest is shallow, quick and barely noticeable beneath the thick few layers of thermo shirts and woollen jumpers. A small smile tugs at the corners of chapped lips, parted for the hasty puffs of air. “They’re going to fix you up, dear. Just follow their instructions.” It’s clear that they have to move, but with Sebastian’s blood spilling like this, it would only trigger his desanguination, make it worse than it already is.

 

_But I know it’s there somewhere. –SM_

 

A trembling hand is outstretched, and after a brief moments consideration, Jim meets it halfway with his own, pale fingers twining between thin gloves. He can feel the slight warmth coming through, but it’s not enough to be comforting. They have to move. They have to get Sebastian out of this bloody weather as soon as humanly possible because hypothermia is inevitable if they stay here. Jim knows Sebastian is weak because of the amount of blood he has already lost, and because it is hard for the other to keep his eyes open. “No sleep for you now, honey.” He gives him a somewhat sympathetic smile, noticing how Sebastian’s whole body has started trembling.

Or maybe that was already the case.

It is odd to see someone normally so formidable, so strong and seemingly invincible, curled up without any energy or feeling left in any limb, leaving him vulnerable to others’ mercy. And especially because- however much Jim hates to admit it- he _needs_ his sniper.

 

_It must be. –SM_

 

The snow melts beneath him where he sits, and he reckons Sebastian must be soaked and cold to the core. He lifts the hand to his lips, pressing the glove-clad knuckles to his cheek first before kissing the fabric lightly as he feels his grip weaken. “Come on now, Tiger. Attention. Look at- _look at me._ Atta boy.” The blond’s focus is momentarily with Jim again, before his eyelids flutter again and his eyes roll upwards. He gazes sightlessly at the sky before the pupils disappear and there is only a hint of green visible below the ash-blond lashes. Jim swallows. “Hurry the _fuck_ up.” He demands to the medics, who are still pressing against the source of the bleeding- which has nearly stopped now, so that’s a good sign.

But Sebastian is drifting in and out of consciousness, despite Jim trying to keep him focused. Jim knows it must be hard, even he barely feels his own body anymore, let alone someone who has been laying in the snow in the full wind, rapidly losing life on a goddamn rooftop. “No, Seb. S-.. Sebastian?” He doesn’t move. Not even twitch. Not even the faint rise and fall of his chest is noticeable anymore. It’s gone.

 

_You don’t have to say it. –SM_

 

“Sebastian Augustus Moran.” Jim speaks clearly, demanding, voice edging on panic as he nudges the broad blond. He lays a hand against the man’s cheek, cupping his jaw as he brings his face closer, the tanned skin freezing under his touch. No bodily warmth to detect, no pink flush because of the roaring wind- just the cold. Sebastian’s eyes are closed and the fluttering of his lids has stopped. Jim shakes him again. “ _Sebastian._ ” His voice has dropped to a whisper, face so close he could have felt the other’s breath on his lips if only he would breathe.

But he doesn’t.

Sudden warmth wells up in his eyes, cooling down and leaving icy streaks across his cheeks as soon as they run down and leave little droplets on Sebastian’s scarf.

The medics don’t seem to realise what Jim has already had to face.

His bottom lip quivers, and not because of the stinging storm that forces itself against the already chapped flesh.

 

_I’ll say it for you. –SM_

 

Before he can stop himself, a wail tears itself from his throat, and Jim finds himself collapsed on Sebastian’s chest, finally drawing the attention of the other two imbeciles. He shakes violently, clutching Sebastian’s hand in his own as the other is still cupping his cheek, pushing, pulling, shoving, trying to shake new life into his right hand man, his best sniper, his Sebastian. But it’s no use, and he already knows that.

Still, he won’t let go of the man who once brought him tea in the mornings, however groggy and grumpy Jim was. The man who grinned at the shifts in his mood, who beckoned him to bed when he had spent hours behind his laptop, fussing and stressing over something he had no reason of getting worked up over. The realisation that he would never find the tanned blond splayed atop the duvet of _his_ bed, in the exact centre, leaving no room for Jim so that he had to curl up against and on top of him to be able to catch some sleep, tore at him like he was crashing through a hole in the ice, and the sharp edges cut him open as he was plunged into the icy water.

He couldn’t breathe but for the ragged sobs that left him, ice filling his lungs as he stared up at that pale face that had once been so full of colour, so full of life. The one that had once held an expression to full of adoration when directed at Jim. It broke his heart now, looking at him, knowing that those looks would only be regained by memory. He just wanted Sebastian to hold him again. But life had been fully drained from his body, leaving them both on that roof, in that weather, so Jim held Sebastian instead.

 

_I love you too. –SM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the first was a bit sad, I promise that there will be more fluffy chapters along the way.
> 
> Also, since i'm quite busy but wanted to post the first chapter because *excitement*, I will not be uploading a chapter every day. It'll be more like.. every week. So... 30 Week OTP Challenge.
> 
> I've got the next one ready, so i'll definitely post that next Monday. I'm so sorry I won't post one every day, but it'll be easier for me like this what with school and all, and it'll be an attempt at keeping you guys happy ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading this, any comments are more than welcome :D


	2. Day 2: Cuddling somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a bit more fluffy as a kind of compensation for the previous chapter.
> 
> Will upload a new chapter every Monday (oops is this not Monday?)

It itches under my skin when it’s been more than two weeks, and I know that I have to get away as soon as possible. Out of London, at least. If you ask a random citizen in Banbury what the scare of their life has been, eight out of ten would murmur something about a wild exotic animal walking the streets. The headlines in the newspapers the following morning were exaggerating, though. I can perfectly control my other form. To an extend where I have managed to keep my ability from Jim.

Now, I can’t say I’m entirely proud- who am I kidding, of course I’m bloody proud, that guy has a nose for the extraordinary- but it often leaves me overly weary of the habits of my shift. Luckily, my body has granted me some sort of warning system. Whenever I’m close to a shift- mostly three or so hours before I have to, and a light tingling begins the day before- my skin will tickle and ache, as if the fur is trying to creep out from under it. I don’t know how my body does it, and where it stores it all when I change back, but I’ve never known differently.

“You look tense, ‘Bastian.” Jim mumbles from behind his laptop as I come into the room and flop down on the couch, next to him. He hasn’t even looked up to actually _see_ me, but oh well.

“Yeah I was wondering if I could get a day off.” Might as well just get right down to it, no? In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, it would eventually be Jim’s own fault if he won’t let me go, and I know how fond he is of his expensive furniture and Persian rugs. It earns me a raise of an neatly trimmed eyebrow, crinkling his forehead slightly. I almost don’t have the guts to look up and meet his gaze. But I do, with a relaxed smile over my lips, even though I really don’t feel like that on the inside. Maybe it’s the oncoming shift, coiling in my stomach, trembling in my muscles and making my skin crawl. It’s not unpleasant, but it has been a long time ago.

I have become accustomed to the tense feeling of pre-shift by stretching it out, testing it and pushing my boundaries. When I was younger, I had to shift once every two days, three tops, otherwise the pain would become too much and it would physically hurt until the point where I was unable to do anything else but give in to it and change on the spot. Hence the incident in Banbury; a time where I had not yet gained so much control over my own pattern, and had accidentally let it build up far beyond my limits.

“You’ve got the evening off, why would you want to add another day to that?”

Clever question, one I have not entirely thought through just yet. There is no real legitimate answer save for the truth, and no way in Hell am I going to tell that. Who knows how he’s going to react?

“I thought it’d be nice to get out of London for a bit. Maybe leave tonight, come back same time tomorrow.” Shrugging, I fumble a little with my shoelaces, toeing my shoes off and setting them beside the couch. It shows Jim I’m in no hurry where I actually am, but optical illusion is key, I suppose. Whenever that works. He contemplates. I can see it by the way he stares at his screen, but his fingers are not tapping away at the keys and his eyes do not skim over for me invisible lines of text.

“Where would you go?” Comes the question after a brief moment of silence, and then Jim is typing again.

“...Farningham Wood.”

“Isn’t that a nature reserve?”

I chew on my bottom lip.

“Yes.” _I get hungry sometimes, you know._ He seems to play around with the thought in his mind, as if there is something he wants to add to it. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he suddenly comes up with at least one if not several conditions. But, if they’re acceptable, at least I can leave in an hour or so, so that I can be in the woods just in time.

“I have a condition.” There it is. I hum in acknowledgement. “I’m going with you.”

My brow creases in a slow frown, but it is left unanswered as Jim continues typing fervently, eyes flicking over the source of illumination in his lap. I can’t possibly take him with me. He has once before threatened to make me into a fine rug for in the den, and God knows what he’d do with a tiger’s fur. And if I’d survive that. But the criminal sounds so determined, that it is already a lost cause for me to even begin arguing, but I can always try.

“You don’t even _like_ camping.” I can’t help but shoot him a teasing grin, knowing that there is a fair chance that he will realise this and back down from his ultimatum. However, as his eyes flick up, peering over the screen to look me straight in the eye, I can see the determination set behind his eyes.

“I’m going with you, or you’re not going.” I swear, sometimes he is an utter petulant child. The way he sits there, almost pouting over his laptop, like an overgrown infant with eyes unnaturally dark and mesmerizing, having the power to manipulate anyone into doing anything. I thought that I had grown used to the intense and scrutinizing gaze. I have not. Either way, whether I want it or not, I need to go.

“Fine,” I say at last, taking a deep breath and rising from my seat, “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes, pack your bag.” After having received one last scowl, I turn on my heels and stalk into my room, sudden slight panic overtaking me. _How the hell am I going to do this?_ I can’t just drop him off and leave him there, by the tent, to fend for himself. Even though it’s not particularly dangerous, it isn’t safe either.

 Besides, he wouldn’t tolerate that. He would follow me, dragging his feet and looking around as if the mere percentage of oxygen _bored_ him. I have gotten used to his moods, so that’s fine with me, he can glare at the sky all he wants, but I can’t shift near him.

I think I’ll just have to.

I reach under my bed for a medium size backpack, opening my wardrobe to throw in an extra shirt and pair of trousers, and a few boxer briefs. If I’m going to change back in that time, it has happened before that my body reacts on sounds in the night, rousing the literal animal in me, tearing my pants in the process as I shift in my sleep. Instinct. Luckily, the only sounds in my bedroom at Conduit at night are those of cars driving by and the occasional pigeon. Sirens, maybe. An ambulance or a helicopter, but aside from that, no real animalistic sounds. I don’t react much to dogs, nor to cats.  I used to, though. I used to react to almost every single sound coming from outside my tiny bedroom window, and I have always felt lucky that my mother was asleep, and my father too drunk to notice.

At least it was something to be grateful for in my family.

Discipline had taught me how to control it, but when I’m in the woods, I can just let it all go for as long as it lasts. I reveal a small tent from under my bed as well, one I always take with me but barely ever use, and take it all with me to the living room. Once there, there is no sign of Jim, who comes out only a minute later, the leather strap of a bag crossing over his chest. I smile at his outfit- his ever impeccable suit having been discarded and replaced by simple black sweatpants and a tee shirt, almost mirroring what I’m wearing myself. If our clothes would have been dirty, and our bodies showing signs of addiction, we would have looked like a pair of junkies on a hunt for their next hit. Which it is for me, really. Shifting gives me a certain feeling of relief, letting out the tension that has been building up inside of me since my last ‘hit’.

 

“Ready?” I question, although the picture says it all.

“Lead the way.”

 

Luckily, it’s only about an half hour drive once we’re out of London. So once we’ve extracted ourselves from the crammed traffic in the city centre, we’re able to actually make some progress. My fingers curled tightly around the leather of the steering wheel, knuckles white, I peer out over the broad stretch of road in front of us. My skin tingles, and my muscles are taut, temperature rising in anticipation of the shift. Perhaps not the ideal circumstances for me to be driving a car right now, let alone with Jim sitting silently beside me. He barely says anything during the ride, but I can sense by the sideways glances that he is suspicious, even though he doesn’t know what exactly to think. I’m still not quite  convinced that this is the right or smart thing to do, but there’s no turning back now. I can’t just turn around, drive back to London and shove him out of the car. That would be asking for trouble. Moreover, that would indubitably secure my elimination.

I exit the main road and drive into the countryside. After half a mile, I turn the car onto a gravelly lane, small stones skidding and ticking against the underside of the car like rain against a window. I notice the small narrowing of Jim’s eyes, and have to bite my lip not to chuckle. I park the car at the very end of the lane, thick trees encircling a small meadow with enough space to park the car and build the tent and still have some space, and get out. It’s very quiet in the clean, open air, branches and leaves surrounding their camping space like a big, green wall. Nobody ever comes here, mostly because it is a restricted area. ‘Personnel only’. Normally, it wouldn’t be noticeable that I would be camping here, because my baggage would consist of my motorbike and a small weekend bag. The size of the bag depending on how long I would stay. I could park my bike beneath the trees further into the woods. Piece of cake. But with Jim here, I’ve decided not to take my motorbike this time, instead going by car for proper transport, having a tent with me for bossman to sleep in.

There is, of course, a chance that he will demand me to bring him back after he’s seen what I can do. There is a big range of possibilities of what he can do and how he can react. He can be affronted, insulted, furious, seething, surprised, you name it. He may want to kill me. Fire me (which would result in the same as being killed, really. Either way, I wouldn’t survive). I force myself not to think of it too much. First things first. I walk around the side of the car to open the trunk as Jim scrambles out as well.

We agree on me setting up the tent as he goes around the border of trees to gather some wood for a decent fire, piling it up underneath the car. For if it is going to rain, those twigs and branches will at least still be dry and utilisable.

 

The sun is still high up in the sky, burning hotly on my back as I hunch next to the canvas expanse of the tent, and by the time I’m done- mattress in it and all- my tee shirt is sticking to the small of my back, beads of sweat between my brows. I drink some water from a bottle, wiping my face with the hem of my tee. Jim had laid down a blanket in the higher grass in the shade, a nice stack of firewood next to the front right tire of the car. There is no phone in his hand, and no laptop in his lap, nor is there a stack of papers where he lays, eyes closed and hands behind his head. It makes me smile to see him so relaxed, although I have no idea what is going about in his head. I notice there is a spot beside him, exactly my size, and I flop down on the blanket.

“Done?” He asks, eyes still lidded.

“All set.”

Set for Jim to have an as comfortable night as I could muster. I, of course, will not be sleeping in the tent with him. My hands folded over my stomach, ankles crossed, I gaze up at the ceiling of bright green leaves hanging overhead, and I think that maybe I should give him a slight warning in advance.

“Jim?”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t come here for camping.” There is a beat of silence, and then Jim moves, rolling onto his side and leaning his head on the palm of his hand, elbow sinking into the blanket. His eyes rake down me in a curious, scrutinizing fashion.

“I figured as much. What are we here for then?”

I purse my lips in momentary thought, trying to form a careful sentence of explanation.

“There’s something I need to do, basically. Something… inhuman.”

He huffs a chuckle, “Darling, if you came here to hunt, I really don’t think ‘inhuman’ is the correct choice of lexis.”

“I mean, literally inhuman. Perhaps I’ll go hunting later, if I feel like it…” I suppress the urge to shrug. This is not the topic of conversation for such a non-suggestive gesture.

“What do you mean?”

Might as well get straight to the point, “I can change my physical form.” I turn my head to watch Jim’s reaction, but he merely blinks, raising one dark eyebrow.

“Well?” He questions, edging on a little impatiently, yet there is curiosity in there as well. And disbelieve. “Into what to you supposedly change?”

He must think I’ve gone completely bonkers.

“…A tiger.”

He doesn’t so much as flinch, and I watch him expectantly, warily. After a moment, he sits up cross-legged.

“Show me.”

I must admit, I’m taken by surprise a little. Then again, this doesn’t mean he believes me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me. I pull myself to my feet, hesitating marginally before I tug my shirt over my head and drop it in the grass. He watches amusedly as I begin to tug at the waistband of my sweatpants and toe off my shoes. He loves a good show, and I doubt this will be something he’ll easily forget. Once my sweatpants are discarded, and I am left in nothing but my pants and socks, standing in the slightly damp grass, I back away a little to give myself space.

And I give in to the aching of my flesh.

My temperature rises, and I can already hear my skin cracking before I can really feel it. And then, suddenly, it slams itself into my spin with an incredible force, sending me to all fours with a groan that slowly morphs in my throat, developing into an animalistic growl during the proceedings. Big plunks of golden fur erupt from the cracks in my skin, as if growing directly from my bones. I curl my fingers into the dirt, digging, nails growing as my fingers slowly disappear to make place for two big paws with claws. I feel my upper teeth touch my bottom lip, even though my lips are parted in a soundless scream. I don’t see Jim’s expression from where my face is turned to the ground, and I am too concentrated on transforming anyway.

With a deep breath, the straining of my muscles finally eases, and leaves a dull ache which can be shushed with a leisurely stretch. And thus I arch my back, sticking my arse high in the air as I lean back, front legs reached out before me, and a yawn tears itself from my jaws.

I’m being forced back into the present by a soft gasp, and my head snaps up just in time to see Jim- now on his feet- stagger back one single step with a for him horrid expression. Well, at least he’s not furious. Yet. I realise he has no clue as to if I’m still in here or not, and I reckon I should have told him in advance. I’m still in control, body and mind, even though my physical appearance has changed. I can’t talk, however, so we’ll have to communicate through hands and feet. Or, in my case, paws and claws. He seems to gradually come to his senses, and drops his hands from where they have been hovering by his ribs in a protective manner.

“Sebastian?” He questions, unsure. And I know he’s referring to whether I can understand him. I let out a soft noise of recognition, bowing my head. Now he has to understand, no? And I know he does, because I can see him relax, if not entirely. He is still wary, but I can’t blame him. You don’t just get relaxed so easily with a big Siberian tiger posing right in front of you, however obedient they might seem. Instinct.

Nevertheless, I can see something shifting in his gaze, agonisingly slowly. It goes from something closest to afraid, to growing curiosity, and perhaps even a little admiration- if release my ego on the scanning of Jim’s expression.

I lift my head a little higher, tail swaying lazily behind me and my ears shifting on top of my head. I shake out my fur before sitting down and watching Jim expectantly, giving him the chance to approach me on his own account, showing him I’m (mostly) harmless. Well, to him I am. I wouldn’t injure him. Wouldn’t dare.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he advances me by stepping forwards slowly, caution making his movements rigid and stiff.

“Well,” he hums, reaching out a hand. For show, I sniff at it, and refrain from rolling my eyes. The only thing different about his scent is that it’s more intense, more apparent, “aren’t you a looker.” He runs his hand upwards, carding through the fur on my forehead, between my ears, and down the back of my head to my neck in one long stroke. And it feels utterly heavenly. I’ve never had anyone caress me in this form, let alone touch me in general, and it feels like fingers carding softly through my hair, that feeling that can make you drool spontaneously at the mere thought. Which it is, really. Automatically, my eyes lid slowly, vocal chords beginning to vibrate softly and producing a gentle purring sound.

“Oh, look at you,” Jim coos, relaxing visibly while he continues to pet me, “you like that, don’t you?” His voice is almost an octave higher, and I ask myself if he really realises I’m still me. I push my head against his hand, and he joins his first with the other as he slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of me. His hands move over my ears, cheeks, and finally under my chin, my head tilting upwards and the purring growing louder.

“It’s like you’re entirely attention starved, my dear.”

I rise on my hind legs, lifting a front paw to push against Jim’s chest in a teasing fashion, but he loses his balance, arms flailing, and he rolls backwards into the high grass where he was sitting. Much to my surprise, a cackle leaves his lips, and I take it as an invitation, stepping forwards to hover over him. His hands find my flanks and I let my legs give, sinking down on his chest with careful ease. Normally, I’m already taller and broader than Jim, but the difference now is simply comical. I cover him entirely, his feet sticking out from beneath my fur with my tail lying between them, the tip swaying slowly. I lower my head while he scratches his nails over my skin, pushing aside the golden hairs of my pelt to reach between, and I nuzzle my nose against his neck, hot breath huffing over the expanse of skin I find there, which in turn makes him chuckle quietly again.

I’m glad he’s reacting so well, but I also take into consideration that this could mean the calm before the storm. But he is finally thoroughly relaxed, face pressed against the fur of my neck, arms having come to rest around my flanks, just holding me.

“Don’t think I’m not mad at you, ‘Bastian,” he mumbles, voice muffled by my neck. It’s fine, and I give a low, quiet grunt in confirmation. “I’ll find you a proper punishment for withholding crucial information.” That I understand as well, and I will accept any punishment he throws upon me, as long as he doesn’t stay cross with me for too long. I can’t stand the ignoring for days on end, it leaves the flat so silent and hollow. I’d rather walk a little internship with the cleaning crew instead of receiving a cold shoulder.

I let my eyes slide closed, both of us falling silent for a few long moments, huddled close to each other, the sky slowly darkening above us. I really don’t mind this, and I think he doesn’t as well, despite whatever he may say.

And when he speaks, it’s the confirmation that I wanted if not needed, spoken softly, gently, almost sweetly for what can be considered that when it concerns a certain consulting criminal, and it is enough for me.

“I don’t think I’ll be needing a pillow anytime soon.”


	3. Day 3: Playing Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will upload a chapter every Monday :)
> 
> Please notify me if you find any mistakes.

“Boreeed.” A low voice drawled close to Sebastian’s ear, making him look up from the book that he was reading. “Entertain me.” Sebastian rolled his eyes, shuffling a little under the press of the other man’s chest against his shoulder, as if Jim was trying to intimidate him deeper into the seat of the couch.

“Go trouble that detective with your presence,” Sebastian grumbled back, eyes focused on the pages before him. That was, until it was snatched from his hands, and flung across the room to explode in a mess of white sheets in the corner. Bright green eyes found dark doe, excited ones, pupils dangerously blown, and Sebastian heaved a sigh. “I was reading that.”

Jim nodded solemnly, a lazy smirk playing on his lips, “Yes you were. But not anymore. Now, because I’m in a pathetically good mood-“ Sebastian could see that he wasn’t exactly- “I’m going to let you choose the game we shall play.” The sniper was not in the mood for any kind of game, whether it was a board game or a game of bloody tag, and Jim never liked normal games. All the criminal’s ‘games’ mostly end up in murder or decapitation or anything similar, and Sebastian didn’t really fancy getting another scar that day.

“Fine, Jim. Fine,” The blond mumbled, nudging Jim with his shoulder to get him to move away, which he does. “Let’s dust off the Wii then,” Jim’s face contorts visibly, expression morphing from surprise to slight disgust, and then to a constant scowl. Sebastian just stared right back at him, one eyebrow raised. Finally, Jim gave in with a dramatic roll of his head, throwing it back into his neck with a sigh before he looked back at Sebastian again.

“Fine,” The man sighed, anything when a certain criminal is bored.

“Yeah, _you_ said I could choose wh-“

“-Yes, yes, I said fine. Go, shoo.” Sebastian was dismissed from the couch with a flick of Jim’s hand, the dark-haired man lying back and crossing his arms over his chest in a fairly petulant fashion.

It didn’t take Sebastian all too long to find their old console in a wardrobe in the basement, a thick layer of old dust spread over the cover. With a single puff of air, the greyish matter was sent flying in lithe dust particles through the dimly lit basement, Sebastian wrinkling his nose and leaning away a little. The consoles were packed away in a cardboard box next to the piece of technology itself, all the wires tied together neatly. The lid of the box was as dusty as the Wii itself, and Sebastian wiped a hand over the surface, his hand coming away a rather dark shade of gray with thick balls of whatever-the-hell clinging to his palm. He shook it off, wiped his hand on his jeans, and rose to his feet from where he was hunching by the closet. There were a few games in the box as well, one even still wrapped in its plastic, others barely used. Sebastian climbed the stairs with the box clutched under one arm, the Wii lying on top, and padded through to the living room where Jim still lay curled up on the couch in his jeans and jumper nicked from his sniper.

It was a lazy day at Conduit, neither man in a very productive state, resulting in both of them hanging about their shared home, Jim eventually beginning to pace restlessly because _‘I should never have sent Davey to Brixton’_ or _‘Sherlock still hasn’t figured out my puzzle yet’._ Sebastian had tried not to pay him too much attention, rather enjoying his day of peace and quiet, his day of rest. Even though it wasn’t all that peaceful, nor quiet.

Eventually, Jim had flopped down onto the couch, pouting petulantly for a few blissfully silent moments, before he had started nagging again, trying to keep Sebastian from his reading.

The sniper shot Jim a look as he kneeled beside the television, one by one unpacking the contents of the cardboard box and untangling the wires to connect the damn thing to the television. He could feel Jim’s eyes in his back as he reached behind the television, plugging the power plug into the socket that was installed behind the device. “Why don’t you get us some drinks, Jam?” The blond asked casually, a teasing hint underlying his light tone of voice as he installed the Wii with a slight grin. He could hear the sigh it tore from Jim- especially that nickname- but much to his surprise, there came no backfire to his comment. Instead, the couch creaked ever so softly, and footsteps padded through to the kitchen. Sebastian looked up just in time to see a slender figure retreat through the kitchen door.

When the Wii was finally connected- which isn’t all that difficult, really. It’s not rocket science, at least- the sound of the boiling kettle erupted from the kitchen, and Sebastian knew it wouldn’t be all too long before Jim would reappear. The tall blond rose to his feet, moving the box to the sofa where he slumped down to fumble with the batteries of the black consoles. Jim did reappear only a moment later, holding two steaming mugs which he set down on the coffee table. “We’re out of biscuits,” he announced gravely, to which Sebastian nodded vaguely as he tried to extract an empty battery from the back of the console in his hands.

“I’ll go get some tomorrow,” The blond replied as he went about inspecting the games and their discs next, checking for any prominent scratches. “Alright.” With that, he turned the television on as well as the Wii and one of the consoles, a blue light showing the batteries were fully loaded. The home screen appeared, illuminating bright white. “We’ve got...” Sebastian held up game by game, picking them from the box at his feet, “Super Smash Bros, some Donkey Kong game, Mario Kart-“

“Yes, let’s do that one.” Jim had sat down with crossed legs, cradling his mug between his hands.

Sebastian looked up, “What one?”

“The...” Jim waved a hand to the game Sebastian was holding when the criminal had interrupted him.

“Mario Kart?” Seb questioned with a raised eyebrow.

The reply came as a hum and a nod, and Sebastian couldn’t do much else rather than oblige and crouch by the Wii to insert the disk. It took the device a moment to recognise the game before Jim snatched up a controller and- of course- assigned himself to be player one. Sebastian couldn’t do much else than oblige to the man’s will and thus sat back on the couch and let him go through the intro of the game as he prepared the other controller and checked the batteries.

“Grand Prix, Versus, or Battle?” Jim murmured as Sebastian’s console was connected, blue light showing it had enough power left for just about a few games.

“Let’s just start with grand prix.”

They chose modus- the 150cc one, naturally- and were immediately forced into choosing their characters. Jim found it funny for Sebastian to be princess Peach, while he himself chose Yoshi as his character. There was no escaping it, Sebastian knew immediately, so he just went with it and selected the blonde princess with the pink dress with an amused snort.

“You’re taking _that_ kart?” Jim rose his eyebrow from where he had shuffled backwards against Sebastian’s side, making it impossible for the latter to move more than the arm that was holding the remote.

“Yeah. Look how cute it looks,” Sebastian teased, nudging his shoulder between Jim’s shoulder blades, which earned him a mild elbow in the stomach. Because the game hadn’t been played too often, and there were no saves on the Wii, they were reduced to playing the Mushroom Cup consisting of four tracks, and as Jim selected it, they were put on the race track while the criminal was fumbling with his remote control.

“How on earth am I supposed to hold this?”

“Tilt it to the- no, to the side. Like this,” Sebastian held up his remote which he was holding horizontally, tilting it to the side to indicate how to steer.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jim grumbled with pursed lips, but on the screen, the countdown was already being shown. Sebastian knew a small trick to make his kart go faster at the start, and he was fired away with a speed Jim had no idea how to reach so quickly.

“What? How did you do that?”

Sebastian just grinned as he concentrated on the tracks before him, tilting the remote to steer into curves and try to capture the cubicles that would give you items. “Watch out for that dog?”

“Dog?” Obviously, Jim had either never played this game, or had never really paid any attention to anything involving Mario, because he drove almost straight into the big, black cannonball that was supposed to be a dog tied on a leash, but could just about reach the tracks. Karts raced past Jim as he tumbled over the tracks and was put straight, already losing time. Jim curse under his breath but continued nevertheless, trying to catch up with the other karts.

“Try to drive through those blocks on the tracks,” Sebastian advised, referring to the ones that give you items to use and to throw. “If you’re in the last place, you’ll get more useful items.”

Jim received a small red mushroom, and frowned, “What’s this?”

“Speed boost.”

“How do I use it?”

“Press A.”

The button was pressed, and Jim meandered over the tracks, brows knitted together in concentration.

By the last lap, Jim had grown more accustomed to the sensitivity of movement with the remote and the ‘dog’ just past the finish line, and had skilfully worked his way to fifth place while Sebastian was still second, and fighting for first. Just before the finish line, Jim managed to overtake another kart and ended up fourth, Sebastian racing past the black and white checked line as second.

At the next track, Sebastian again managed to get a head start, leaving Jim in the exhaust gases from his kart with a maniacal little chuckle.

“You think that is funny, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian grinned, eyes trained on the television.

“So what, you just press A right before it has counted down to one?”

Sebastian said nothing, not wanting to reveal his little trick; much to Jim’s chagrin. Bananas were thrown, sending several carts skittering over the tracks and crashing into the blockages at the sides, and Jim continually drove through the grass which slowed down his speed rather than accelerated it.

“You should stay on the tracks,” Sebastian kept warning him, but it only earned him a foot against his arm, sending him off balance and crashing into another kart, resulting in both of them falling behind massively. “Oi, what’d you do that for?”

Jim wriggled his toes into Sebastian’s side, pushing himself away from the blond for as far as was possible on the sofa. Sebastian tried to squirm away while he focused on winning back first place.

He ended up fourth and Jim ended up third for a chance.

“Okay, no more cocking around,” Sebastian warned mildly, waving his remote at the other man as he tucked his feet beneath him to sit cross-legged on the sofa.

 

Jim, however; took this as an invitation.

 

“Hey! That was yours, wasn’t it?” A red shield- which had just been fired off by Jim- knocked Sebastian off the tracks and straight into the water when yet another red shield hit him exactly when he was set straight again.

“Yup,” Jim hummed triumphantly, finally managing to overtake kart by kart, speeding up and using the correct items at the convenient time. Sebastian, on the contrary, had fallen behind majorly because of the stunt Jim had pulled, and was pressing the buttons harder as if that would help him to accelerate speed.

“How can you get those red mushrooms when you’re in third place? That’s not fair!” Sebastian had shuffled to the edge of his seat on the sofa, elbows propped upon his knees and back arched forwards. Jim was still lying back leisurely, a smug little smile on his face now he was finally starting to win, his previously grumpy state forgotten and evaporated completely.

Jim was on the brink of finishing first with several others on his tail, when Sebastian drove through a cubicle and received a blue shell.

Sebastian’s lips pulled up over his teeth in a wide grin as he fired the shell, watching on the little map how it flew straight towards Jim’s kart and crashed right on top of it, only a fraction of a moment before he would win the round.

 

It was dead silent for a moment apart from the music that sounded from the telly; Sebastian trying very hard to hold his laughter as he ended up sixth, Jim just frozen in place.

 

The moment a chuckle burst past Sebastian’s lips as he turned to meet Jim’s deadly glare, he was sent backwards, off the sofa and onto the plush white rug that lay on the floor and something ice cold was pressed to his throat and forcing his head back into the fabric. Jim was hovering over him, expertly pinning him to the floor and holding the blade which he always kept with him (no matter what) to the underside of Sebastian’s chin. Startled, Sebastian looked up in confusion, but he wasn’t able to hide his amusement entirely.

“Easy there, Jimbo,” Sebastian swallowed against the knife, hands coming to rest on Jim’s hips from where the man straddled his thighs.

Jim hissed, eyes dark and dangerous, and his lips pressed together in a tight frown as he seethed, “I was almost at the finish,” And Sebastian smiled fondly, lifting his head from the floor, resisting against the blade as he leaned up to press a light kiss to Jim’s unmoving lips.

“You’ll always be my number one,” The sniper murmured teasingly, and Jim was all too glad to punch him in the ribs.


	4. Day 4: On A Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will upload a chapter every Monday :)

If there’s something I’ve learnt throughout the years of my employment with Jim Moriarty, it’s that you never just get away with something.

 

I’ve experienced it firsthand plenty of times, and have seen others perish and shrivel and die by the hands of this man. He is merciless when it comes to betraying his trust or lying to him, even if it is for the benefit of many. I speak with pride when I say that I have managed to be this loyal to him for this long already, and have barely failed him save from some potential (minor) mistakes. But I know him well enough to see when he gets worked up over something and when he is on the verge of killing the very first to walk through the doors of his office. Which, I should say, I have seen happening before, and I was all too glad it wasn’t me that day.

He always gets his revenge, however, and he finds peace in the planning and executing of said plans. He has folders full of potential punishment trials, might something occur. Yet he mostly takes the time to think of something new, something fitting. Punishment comes swiftly and mostly personally; the deed done by the man himself. I have been asked to accompany him several occasions before, and have watched his regal way of going about these punishments.

For a man who gets other people to do the dirty jobs for him, he is strong and quick, vicious in his approach and precise in his execution. And he never, ever, gets even so much as a speck of blood on his suit if he doesn’t want that to happen. I don’t mind getting filthy during a job, and neither does he- occasionally- but the skills with which he kills and hurts are marvellous. He is a role model like that, in a way. A role model for precise killers. He knows every artery, every organ and joint and sensitive spot of the human body. If he wants, he can paralyze you with a single touch, but he always says that’s too simple. There are a few tricks which I have learnt from the man, and they can come in useful when I’m on a particularly sneaky mission or a job in which I am told to inflict as much pain to someone as possible. Or, for instance, when I need to threaten a group of men.

Let’s say someone attacks you. Just one man out of a group of about five or six. The others stay behind, watching. One of them is the Mafia boss—or not, it doesn’t particularly matter, as long as they get the message. It’s probably a henchman that will be sent straight towards you, and the best way to send the right message is to take a knife, and stick it in his inner thigh. What the man will do almost immediately, is pull it out.

And that’s where it goes wrong. The knife is the only thing that stops the blood from flowing, and if you’ve stuck it in right, it should have hit a major artery which only secures the victim’s death once he pulls it out. He will have bled to death in under seven seconds. In my line of work, those kinds of things are useful to know.

As for my boss, he just enjoys making people squirm. And whether it is excessive torture or revenge by other means, his punishments are always nasty. It could start with a simple house fire in which the family members of the traitor get burnt to ashes in their sleep, to one’s entire life being made miserable until coming to an end through violent death one way or another.

The boss had been on edge for about half a week when there was a knock on my bedroom door one night. Or rather; not so much of a knock. Actually, there was no knock whatsoever, he just barged in in the middle of the night like he owns the place. Which, I suppose he does. Hell, all I truly own in that house of his is my Webley.  And maybe some clothes, but it’s indirectly his because he pays me, of course. Except for my gun.

 

Anyway, so he comes into my bedroom at two am in the morning, flopping down right on top of me where I was still sleeping peacefully on my stomach with my face pressed into the soft pillows.

I’m a light sleeper, something of a habit that is almost obligatory in the military, so it wasn’t difficult for him to wake me up. The single creak  the hardwood floor made under Jim’s shoes was enough to rouse me from my sleep, but I was still too sleep drunk to really realise what was going on. You don’t expect to be jumped in your own house, you see. At least, not like that... Right.

I was wide awake in seconds, but Jim just lay there and brought his lips close to my ear to whisper, “Get up, get dressed, and meet me outside the flat in ten minutes,” and moments later he had disappeared from my room. Groggy as I was, it took me another three minutes before I finally really realised what had been asked of me, and I quickly dressed and rubbed the remaining sleep from my eyes.

It wasn’t all too cold outside, luckily, so a pair of trousers and a shirt underneath my jacket was more than enough, and since Jim hadn’t really given me a dress code, I figured anything was permitted. Outside, Jim was waiting for me on the curb, dressed in pretty much the same as I was. No impeccable suit, no shiny designer shoes, no tie. Just jeans and a cardigan underneath a thin leather jacket.

Moments in which I see him like that are rare, so I decided to take it upon me to drink in the sight of him for a few moments, but of course my ogling didn’t go unnoticed.

“Eyes up here, soldier,” Jim purred smugly, and I knew that due to his suddenly lifted spirit, shit was about to go down. One way or another, but I already guessed that something was bound to be blown up. It was a hunch, partially, but maybe something told me that because at Jim’s feet, there were several small crates with what I knew to be dynamite sticks. Old-fashioned. I liked it.

“Load these into the car, will you?” And I did as I was told, lifted crate by crate to secure them in the trunk of a car cheaper than I had expected from Jim. He liked nice cars, mostly expensive ones, just like Sebastian, and monthly trips to the countryside were inevitable. Especially if Jim had just added a new vehicle to his collection.

After having loaded the dynamite into the car, Jim gave me directions, and we drove to a large firm in silence. To my surprise, we arrived at a large garage by the docks which I knew repaired Jim’s cars when it was needed, and as slow as my mind was at 2:30 am in the morning, I could put all the details together.

Of course, Jim had somehow managed to get a hold of the keys to the building, and we slipped inside unnoticed and unseen, the alarm sabotaged and the cameras hacked. I was told to fetch the car and drive it inside as Jim opened one of the big hatches for the cars to enter, and once inside, Jim skidded all over the place to find some of the most beautiful cars in the exhibition, ordering me to install a crate on the backseat of every car he picked. When the dynamite was scattered, we took some time to connect all the sticks with wire, and connected them to each other and to a little black box that was then again connected to a detonator. Big red button, typically Jim. Our shabby car still contained the most of the explosives, and Jim had calculated where exactly the middle of the garage was so we could put it there. It would give an extra precious bang, Jim told me, and I laughed and shook my head as I checked the explosives again and again.

 

At long last- I think it was about 3:30 am- Jim was satisfied and took my hand to lead me out of the garage and into the streets. I didn’t understand it at first, but of course, an explosion with as many sticks of dynamite as we had put there, would be enormous, so we were bound to get to safety first.

Jim seemed so light-hearted all of the sudden, practically skipping beside me as he swung our joint hands in between us. I have to admit, it made me smile, seeing him like that. His revenge wouldn’t inflict any women or children, of any humans for that matter, but it would involve certain ‘babies’ of someone that were considered just as priceless and important as a family. It did occur to me that Jim could have done it all by himself—the crates weren’t heavy, the connecting of the sticks wasn’t rocket science, and the detonating would be the simple press on a button, yet here I was. With him. And he was holding my hand and smiling at me and leading me through the streets of London towards Westminster Bridge. From there, we had an amazing view over the Thames and the lights scattered across the banks on both sides of the river.

I leant my elbows on the stone edge of the bridge, watching out over the water as a slight breeze tugged at my still sleep-ruffled hair, and Jim stuck his hand in his pocket to reveal the detonator and put it on the concrete, watching me. I watched him in return as he rose an eyebrow, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

“Really?” I wanted to know, just to be a hundred percent certain.

“Really,” he assured me with a slow nod, and I picked up the detonator and we both looked in the direction or the garage.

Jim looped his arm through mine, and I took a moment to enjoy having him cuddling into my side before I slowly brought my thumb to the red button in the centre of the device.

The sound was earth shattering, presumably waking entire London if not England, and a shock rumbled through the ground, making the water of the Thames slosh more than it usually did. My initial reaction was to immediately wrap my arm around Jim to secure his safety, but the explosion was so far away that it couldn’t possibly affect us.

From where we were standing on the bridge, the fire that was set ablaze and shot into the air was magnificent, and we both watched it with saucers for eyes like little children at the shopping window of a sweet store. This was our kind of entertainment, and we both couldn’t keep the grins from our faces as parts of the beautiful cars went astray and were sent, dissembled, into the sky. It was a waste of the cars, I thought, but Jim probably had a good reason.

Jim told me, a few days later, that the man who had always tended to his vehicles had been persuaded into messing with the cars he sent in for fixing, and that it had almost caused him an accident. It was the first step towards taking revenge on the man who had indirectly tried to put him in harm’s way. It was the sending of a message like no one dared or could. Jim can make things seem so simple. Just walk into a garage, hack into the system so that the alarms and cameras don’t work, and just casually go about placing dynamite to blow the whole thing up.

Jim told me about what he had coming for the others as he guided me home, our hands linked. The sound of sirens filled the silent streets, and people were hanging out of their windows, dressed in nighties, in an attempt to watch as the sky seemed to be on fire. Suddenly, the night came to life, and everyone who was involved was panicking marginally. Except for us. A perfectly normal couple to any passerby, sauntering about London at approximately 4 am as if we have nothing better to do.

We took a detour home, both reluctant to go to sleep with the adrenaline rushing through our veins, the exciting aftermath of a job well done. We passed by Baker Street. The lights were out, luckily. I think that Jim would have thrown a rock through the window if there had been any sign of life behind them.

 

And then home was our eventual destination, like it is every time after a long day of work, taking hits and offing inconveniences, adjoining meetings and any other business that is related to the life we lead. And it’s a good life at that, I have to say. Any other person would probably disagree, but I’m a criminal, and I don’t care what that means to others as long as it is what it means to me. Having Jim with me, doing what I do best. It’s not all that bad, living.

I made us tea, and we sat on the sofa while we sipped at the scalding hot liquid, half entwined with one another as we talked about nothing in particular. Not everything revolves around work, of course. We both know how to properly relax, and if four o’clock is the right time, then so be it.

Exhaustion kicked in with the warmth of the tea and the cosy confines of our shared flat, however, and we were off to bed before dawn broke, a day of peace and quiet and watching the news in prospect. Jim coaxed me into his bedroom instead of parting ways in the hall, and we undressed with lazy kisses and slow, sleepy movements before crawling under the covers and nuzzling into each other’s embrace.

It are always those moments that I adore most. Having Jim huddled up in my arms, a little bundle of stray limbs and tired eyes close to my heartbeat. It makes me wonder where I would have been were this man non-existent. Probably drunk off my arse somewhere, most alone and in need of a fix. Call me a criminal, but I’m lucky to at least be alive and taken care of and being cared for, and that must mean something, no?

 

“That was a most lovely date,” Jim murmured happily, outstretching his arm towards where the lamp stood on the nightstand, “We should do that more often.”

I propped my head upon my hand as I looked at him with a slightly furrowed brow, “Date? That wasn’t a-“

“Goodnight, Tiger mine.”

 

And the lights went out.


	5. Day 5: Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will post a chapter every Monday :)
> 
> Also, a quick side-note: some of these stories are based on prompts i've written for Omegle, so if you come across one that seems familiar... Hi!

How Jim Moriarty had managed to get mixed up in a party like this, God only knew. Yet here he was, despite his own protest from earlier that afternoon, meandering through a mass of people that were getting progressively more drunk and writhed against each other like the world were about to end. The music was loud, and the unfamiliar house in which the party was held smelled strongly of alcohol and something he could only describe as a sour odour of something post-digestion. Which was, obviously, unpleasant to say the least. The dancers didn’t seem to mind, however.

The party was themed as one of those ‘stoplight’ parties, probably just to give another one of these dull gatherings a name tag. People wore different kinds of coloured clothing and accessories according to the colours of a stoplight to indicate their status relationship-wise. Red wore the people who were spoken for, green were good to go. And orange... Those weren’t certain or were in a difficult or complicated situation. To put it in different terms: bullshit. It was all just a method of finding attention, the eighteen-year-old thought to himself as he found his way to a table in the kitchen, brightly coloured shots of vodka presented on the wooden surface, and picked one at random.

He wore simple bleached grey, tight-fitting jeans, and a loose black tank that was cut low at the sides, and no green nor red nor orange to be seen at first sight. Leaned against the kitchen counter, he let his eyes wander around the crowd of writhing people, a mix of mostly green, some red and but a few orange. He knew that there were people wandering the crowds faking their status, he could see it.

For instance, the blond girl with the green headband that was snogging the bloke with a green belt in the corner? Both not single at all. A part of him wanted to ruin it for them, but then again, who would believe _him_ of all people. Besides, he felt too lazy to gather evidence.

With a sigh, Jim glanced down at the small cup in his hand.

 

 _One drink,_ he promised himself.

 

 

_One drink and I’ll go._

 

 

Even though he hadn’t been there for all too long, he wasn’t planning on staying since the bloke who had tugged him along had long since disappeared into the crowd, and he felt highly agitated surrounded by sex-driven machos and horny, self-centred Barbie dolls. He didn’t fit in. This definitely wasn’t his type of crowd.

Tipping his head back, Jim downed the tiny plastic cup of- _ah, orange_ \- vodka and was decent enough to properly throw the now empty glass in a nearby bin, already bursting with all sorts of different-sized plastic cups.

A few guys were playing beer pong in the corner of the room, loud cheering emitting from them as a ball stuck in a cup. Was it really that hard to do? Probably not, but their intoxicated state indubitably made it all the harder for them.

The alcohol burnt pleasantly down his throat, and he gritted his teeth as he forced back a shudder as it landed. Feeling it slowly being sucked up into his bloodstream and transported through his body, Jim took his phone out of his pocket to tap a quick message to his ‘friend’, saying that he was leaving. Not that the bloke would have remembered having brought Jim with him once the alcohol kicked in, or that he would care whether he would stay or go, but Jim was decent with manners beyond anyone in that godforsaken drug den.

 

 _I need a smoke._ But with an empty pack of Black Devils in your pocket, no one gets very far in soothing that urge. Luckily, Moriarty wasn’t one of strict human-friendly morals, thus he decided upon scanning the crowd for potential smokers, on a mission of nicking a pack. It was never difficult, and especially with people as drunk as they were before him, it would be a piece of cake, a matter of sly cleverness, a charming smile and a quick escape.

Jim set course towards a clique of particularly busy-looking dancers, occupied with only themselves and their dance partners. An orange-shirted girl with dark hair and heels far too high for her thin ankles was pressing herself against a tall blond with green fluorescent paint smeared over his arms, looking like he was about to throw his shirt off and _take_ the poor bird there and then.

 

But he was a smoker, that much was obvious.

 

Heaving an agitated sigh- the victim was too easy, so there was his option- he wriggled through the clique and behind the boy, pressing his chest against a broad back and slipping his hand in the back pocket of his jeans to nick the pack that was hidden there. _Jackpot._ The bloke- once so fixated on the girl in his arms- turned his head to watch the source of the pressure with stormy blues, and Jim slipped past as if he was just passing through and shooting him a sly wink as he dived into the mass of people again.

That was almost too easy. The blond hadn’t seen him dash off with his pack of… Marlboro lights. Oh well. At least there were still three left. And- _ugh_ \- a lighter. Not just a lighter, no. One of those expensive engraved ones, and Jim rolled his eyes at the so obviously egocentric air of the owner. It was heavy, probably real silver, but since it was engraved with a specific name, Jim doubted that he could sell it. That sure was a pity, but it could be used for several purposes other than selling, of course.

 

So with the pack of smokes and a smug little grin on his face, Jim finally made his way outside onto the porch of the house, taking a deep breath of so much less humid air, the sky having grown long since dark and the street lights illuminating the road a few yards away. The porch was lit by the warm light of a lantern next to the door which was wide open as a silent invitation. But Jim didn’t feel invited, didn’t feel like going back in and trying to socialize. It was blissfully silent, except for the music that floated from the open door, hovering over the grass below his feet as he walked down the steps.

He didn’t much care for the few couples or not-couples that were hanging about outside, or the three blokes supposedly concealed by the shadows a few feet to the side of the house, in a circle, getting excited about a spliff they had somehow managed to get their hands on. Unfazed and undisturbed, he picked a cigarette from the pack and brought it to his mouth. Flicking his new lighter, Jim cupped a hand around the end of the cigarette to shield the fragile flame from the soft breeze that softly ruffled his raven hair. As the cigarette was properly lit to Jim’s liking, his lungs filled with smoke that was lighter than he was accustomed to, he closed the lid of the silver lighter and tilted it in his hand to let the dim light reflect on the surface.

 

“Stealing is one thing,” A baritone voice from behind him drawled pleasantly; it wasn’t the intoxicated kind of drawl, “But having the balls to stand outside and light a fag. Hm. Oh, and I _would_ like my lighter back.”

 

Jim set the smoke trapped in his chest free slowly, watching how it coloured grey against the darkened sky as the light caught on it.

“It’s a pretty piece of work, I might just keep it,” He purred back, not once turning to face the blond who was now descending the stairs of the porch judging by the silent creak that could be heard above the dull thumping of the music, but only just. He couldn’t say that he was intimidated by having been caught in an act of petty crime, it’s not like he hadn’t been there before, after all. There was only so much that the other could do. Police aren’t exactly audacious over a stolen lighter.

 

But, of course, Blondie wasn’t just going to let him get away with nicking something that obviously wasn’t his, especially when the nineteen-year-old could use a smoke himself.

 

Having joined Jim at the base of the wooden stairs, he reached out for the cigarette Jim had pinched between fingers, hovering by his mouth, and plucked it from his hands to turn it and place it between his own lips for a deep drag. Jim dragged his gaze up to meet stormy blues, half hidden by the shadows the angle of the light caused as he was being watched in return. Jim still faced the trees opposite the house, and if he concentrated hard enough he could feel the warmth radiating from Blondie’s chest, so very close to his arm and invading his personal space in the process. Did he know _nothing_ of manners? Then again, that was probably a little hypocritical, coming from the one who had just stolen an almost-gone pack of cigarettes and a lighter that was probably quite expensive judging by the weight of it, and now refused to give it back.

But for as long as Blondie wasn’t demanding it back, as long as he wasn’t throwing a tantrum and yelling for his possessions to be given back, Jim was absolutely fine with sharing a cigarette with someone with such soft-looking lips.

“Zippo. Solid silver. 255 pounds,” Blondie informed him matter-of-factly, taking another drag before offering the cigarette back to Jim, who took it and pursed his lips around the end of the filter, “Just in case you were wondering.”

Jim arched a brow, giving the other a sideways glance with the fag dangling from his lips. Stealing wasn’t fun when the victim found out about it, and especially not when they were so nonchalant in the process. It was like the taller boy didn’t want the lighter back at all, and it probably hadn’t been much of a surprise when he had found out that he had been looted. Jim smirked at him before averting his eyes to the case in his hand, turning it in his hands.

“Meh. It’s worth nothing so long as it is engraved with what I presume to be your last name,” Jim stated vaguely questioningly, showing the other the name as if he had never seen the thing before.

“Family heritage,” Blondie shrugged and stole the cigarette from Jim again. It occurred to him that he could as well have had taken his own, a new one from the pack, but for some reason the blond insisted on sharing. “Passed on from father to son.”

“Your father is dead, then,” Jim remarked bluntly.

Blondie said, “No,” and paused to grant Jim a lopsided grin, “Nicked it from him.”

When Jim arched another eyebrow, giving him a ‘whose-the-hypocrite-now’ look, but somehow unable to hide his mild amusement, the taller boy shrugged, “It’s not like he would ever give it to me, anyway.”

Remarkable boy, Jim thought, to be chatting with someone who had practically robbed you, casually sharing a cigarette as if they had known each other for years. While, in fact, they didn’t know each other. Not by name, at least.

Jim huffed quietly, shaking his head marginally at the ground as he scuffed his feet against the grass, “Bad boy.”

 

It earned him another toothy grin, and Blondie rose his arm to lean over Jim, against the post supporting the roof of the porch. So cliché. Really, what was he playing at?

 

Jim decided he liked himself a little game of tug of war.

 

"I can say the same for you, no colour?" The taller one clicked his tongue, shaking his head mockingly.

Dropping a hand to the hem of his shirt, Jim peeled it back to show the waistband of his trousers where a glimpse of his fluorescent green pants were visible, bright against the pale skin of his hip. He hummed lazily as he was given acknowledgement in a low whistle, and he rolled his eyes as he dropped his shirt again.

"How fortunate," was the breathed reply to his action.

Slipping the lighter in his back pocket, he tilted his head slightly to meet the other boy’s gaze, blue eyes raking over his face as if trying to detect something. But Jim was unperturbed, staring right back at him and not once letting his gaze wander from their point of fixation. He supposed, in a normal conversation, that it was now the other’s turn to say something in return if he even wanted the conversation to keep going. He wasn’t trying to get the lighter back, and Jim wondered if Blondie was trying to intimidate him into handing it back on his own volition.

Eye contact dragged on for too long, Jim found, so he was the one to break it by looking ahead of him again, leaning his head back against the rough wood of the supporting post. It wasn’t out of self-defence or anything, but it had seemed that with every second that they held one another’s gaze, the blond boy’s face crept closer, and that was absolutely _not_ what he wanted. His personal space was invaded thoroughly already, thank you very much.

Nevertheless, as soon as the contact broke, it appeared that Jim had been holding his breath, and he scolded himself for a bodily reaction that had not been registered by his mind. Because... his mind had been preoccupied. Good God.

 

As if all of that hadn’t been enough already, Blondie apparently decided that he had had enough and dropped the remnants of the cigarette to the damp grass and dug it into the dirt with the nose of his heavy, black boot. He then seemed to curl even closer as he reached around Jim’s stomach to his back pocket where the lighter was hidden, bringing their noses only barely an inch apart with movement so agonizingly slowly that this time, Jim had a moment to realise he was yet again holding his breath. Apparently, Blondie noticed it as well and chuckled quietly, the air ghosting teasingly over Jim’s lips, who almost scowled at the close proximity. It wasn’t fair to be mocked like this, because Blue Eyes probably knew very well what he was doing.

 

Jim had seen it with the girl he had been dancing with. She had been entranced, completely enchanted by the way his body had moved against hers, his muscular arms loosely coiled around her waist.

 

He shook off the thought as he noticed the hand that had slipped into his back pocket had never retreated, and had never really purposefully gone for fetching it in the first place. Instead, the broad hand was now slowly travelling upwards, slipping just underneath the hem of his shirt and ghosting warm fingers over the small of his back which made Jim jolt a little, the inch he arched forwards the only crossing of space it took to press their chests together. Jim narrowed his eyes at the boy hovering over him, able to feel every breath he took now not only over his cheeks, but also against his chest. And the hand only continued their journey, creeping from one hip to the other in feather light strokes, and in spite of himself, Jim shivered and sighed his sudden content.

“You missed your lighter,” Jim breathed quietly, not quite knowing which touch he should be leaning into most. He licked his lips slowly, watching how Blondie’s gaze dragged downwards to register the motion. All amusement wiped off his face, it seemed like it had been replaced by some sort of withheld admiration. That was _not_ the way he had been looking at the brunette from earlier, and it certainly wasn’t how strangers looked at one another. They had barely exchanged more than a few words, but then didn’t things like this always go this way? Jim, however, was too occupied by the stranger pressing himself against him to care, pupils blown in the half-dark of the porch light.

“I was never going for my lighter,” Blondie hummed as he tilted his head just so, eyes still trained on Jim’s lips. It should make him uncomfortable. It should probably make him want to cringe away and send his knee up to connect with the other’s groin—which was all too easy, with the way he was leaning against Jim.

 

Instead, Jim pressed his shoulder blades into the wood against his back to tilt his chin up to meet Blue Eyes’ lips with his own, taking initiative rather than sitting back and waiting to be kissed or just be worked up only to be left. He was having none of that, and since the both of them had a fair amount of alcohol running through their system, it only seemed to make closing the distance more tempting.

 

Blondie’s lips were as soft as they looked, and Jim let his eyes fall shut as he let himself be kissed, and kissed him in return. He enclosed the taller boy’s lips with his own almost gently, shutting out all light and sound to really concentrate on how their lips slid together, how they melted against one another and how it seemed to let the other lean limply against him, the hand against his back no longer making its circular movements.

Tilting his head for a better angle, Jim pressed closer as he nipped at the plush bottom lip between his teeth, his heart pounding furiously against his chest, and with that, the other boy’s. As he felt an unfamiliar tongue probe almost hesitantly at his lips, Jim parted them to make place for a quiet sigh and met the muscle with his own, his hand coming up to slip into blond strands at the nape of the other’s neck for some kind of leverage.

His mouth was invaded with careful, near calculated precision. But it didn’t seem like too orchestrated. After all, no choreographies are perfect. He tasted like cigarette smoke and too much alcohol, but it was a combination that bothered nor disgusted Jim—much to his own surprise. The boy was warm and pliant under his fingers and lips, neck bend to meet Jim halfway and finding himself pressed against the wood against his back _just so._

 

No heavenly experience lasts forever, and soon their intimate encounter had to be interrupted by both the boys’ lungs begging for oxygen, chests heaving in quiet pants as they parted.

 

Jim licked his lips, masking his disappointment as Blondie retreated that comfortably warm hand from under his shirt and slipped it in his pocket to, after all, grab his lighter before he pulled back entirely to leave Jim slouched against the supporting pillar.

“Then again,” He breathed as Jim shot him a pointed look, “It’s worth 255 quid,” and pocketed the silver thing. “Oh don’t pout now, Feathers.”

Jim scoffed breathlessly, “I am _not_ pouting. And it’s _Jim_ for you,  _darling_.”

The blond stepped closer again, with one single stride invading Jim’s personal space and pressing him back just like he had done before, one hand coming up to cup his cheek and drag a calloused thumb over Jim’s bottom lip which was still moist from kissing.

“Darling, hm? I usually go by ‘Sebastian’. Or Seb, if you will. But call me anything,” The taller blond mused teasingly.

“I do hope we’ll meet again, Feathers. I rather enjoyed our little rendez-vous.” And with that, Sebastian Moran winked and wandered of back up the porch and inside the house, going for a mildly if not barely enjoyable rest of his evening after this, leaving Jim to the mercy of a few staring drunks and a dizziness he couldn’t say he had ever experienced.

 

That night, as he wandered home on his own, Jim decided that he did like parties after all.


	6. Day 6: Wearing Eachother's Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are uploaded every Monday :)

_It’s nice to see your face again_

_Tell me how long has it been_

_Since you’ve been here_

“Scoot,” Comes a familiar voice from beside the bed I’m sitting on, propped up against the headboard. I’m reading a book, cradling the spine in both of my hands until I have to turn a page, and one of them moves to pinch the paper and turn it to the other side while the book balances on my other hand. I life my head, looking up at him for a moment before I do as he says, shuffling until he can slip on the bed beside me. Early morning light seeps through the gaps in the drapes and falls into my eye as I regard him sleepily, the sun catching on his raven hair and making it glow, reflect on the darkness until it shines as he watches me watching him.

“You’ve been sleeping in my shirt again,” I know he’s right. And he knows I know he’s right. I always sleep in his shirt. It smells good and it is just the right amount of warm when I’m curled up under the covers. I see that he has brought me a bottle of water, probably because I haven’t eaten yet today. I don’t think it’s necessary; I’m not hungry. If I am, I’ll go into the kitchen and rummage through the fridge until I find something that I like, that I can stomach. As he sees that I’ve spotted the bottle, he hands it to me, and it feels as cold under my fingertips as it does when I screw off the cap and tip my head back, letting the liquid flow over my tongue and down to pool in my stomach. I drink half the bottle in one go, thirsty as I am. It has a slightly off aftertaste.

“It doesn’t quite fit you, you know that?” he raises one perfectly trimmed eyebrow, “It’s too small for you. “ But I don’t really care. As long as it’s comfortable, which it definitely is. I like these moments, very much. The moments on which I just hang about the flat, too lazy to really change out of my pyjamas, and he is there, too. But he is wearing one of his ever impeccable suits, of course, and I know that I look like a right tramp next to him.

 

I like to consider myself a lucky bloke. I’ve got a job and money in my bank account, savings for later and some to spend now. Something to have a good life with. And I do. I have a boss who treats me well, and we have good times together. Well, torture and murder in the company of one another is considered a good time for us, and I can’t say I hate it.

But these days, the days in which neither of us really have to or want to do anything, and we get to just hang about and linger in each other’s company, are the best of the best.

I think it’s almost summer, which means that we’ll soon be able to enjoy long evenings on the balcony with wine and laughter, or throwing things over the edge to see how long it takes for them to land. Like eggs. They take about four seconds to crash into the pavement beneath and shatter in tiny shards of shell and yolk, landing with a dull splash and spooking any civilian that might or might not pass by.

Jim knows I’ve taken on the habit of wearing his shirt. This one shirt that holds a permanent hiding place beneath my pillow for when I’m not wearing it. It’s too short, it’s too tight, but it makes me feel safe when I sleep, however ridiculous that must sound. It’s also about the only piece of clothing that I can fit into that is his. His trousers are way too slim and short; his pants might fit me, but I have my own and those are just fine; same goes for the socks; and then there’s some of the shirts and cardigans that I can fit into. Not the dress shirts, because they feel uncomfortable (even if it’s Jim’s) and the buttons pop if I try to close it. I’ve got too broad of a chest.

Jim always makes fun of my shoulder-to-waist ratio. Says that I look like a slim Dorito whenever I prance around the flat in nothing but pants or a towel wrapped around my middle. Or just nothing. But I know he likes me that way.

 

I smile at him as he sits down beside me, glancing down at the book I’m holding, clicking his tongue. And I don’t get it. I don’t get why he is disapproving of a book that I’m reading, it’s a good book after all.

“You need to stop living in your own little world and come play with the rest of us.”

I smirk at him, rolling my eyes. He always talks about me being in my own world nowadays, and I suppose I can’t blame him. I just don’t go out all too often, I’m perfectly content on my own with Jim by my side, even when he’s working on another job or texting with people all over the world. And even now does he reach inside of his trouser pocket to reveal his phone and tap away at it, and I have no idea who exactly he is texting with. But whenever I ask, the answer is always something along the lines of ‘someone important’, or ‘Someone you shouldn’t be worrying about. Yet.’. It doesn’t bother me though, I’ve grown used to the fact that he always seems to keep a part of his job to himself, and I like to think that is because he wants to protect me.

Never once has it crossed my mind that it could be that he doesn’t trust me, because I know that he does. He always has, and he even takes the time to tell me that some times.

I don’t think I’ve ever really felt so content, and I take a moment to rest my head back against the wooden headboard with lidded eyes, just listening to the soft tapping of Jim’s fingers on his phone, the light forming orange spots on the insides of his eyelids. We stay quiet for a long few moments, my eyes still shut because they feel heavy and I remember the long, tiring job I had yesterday; the reason for today’s day off. I really do appreciate that. However inconsiderate my boss may come off to some others, mostly employees or other associates, he still considers that the man who basically protects his very life is in need of some rest every now and again.

He is secretly a very gentle man with a calm and reasonable ways, in control as everyone sees him, but not as strict and vicious as he can come off. Well, he is, but when in the confines of his own home, within the company of me, he is so very different than to the cold world outside our doors.

As I lay with my head still tipped back, he hands me a tin, laying it on top of the book that still lays between my hands, and I open my eyes to lift my head and look at it. Candies? My gaze shifts to see that he hadn’t moved, and I quirk an eyebrow as he doesn’t look up to meet my gaze. It’s nothing strange, however. He barely does. Nor does he touch me, so it’s no surprise that he pulled back immediately after having handed me the sweets.

I wonder if it’s poison, but it’s still perfectly sealed and when I open it and lift it to my nose it smells like strawberries and sweetness and too much sugar, almost as if it’s purposefully put there to make my mouth water.

“Present,” I hear him explain absently, “You look like you need them.”

It’s nonchalant, and a gesture I’m not entirely used to, but it’s kind and thoughtful.

I don’t ask him if it’s poison, if he has some further intentions with it, a hidden agenda, or if it’s just a very random little gift, because I know I mustn’t. Especially not with Jim. It’s these little things that make big jobs like yesterday’s worth it. I came home tired and cold to the core, the wind outside having been harsh and freezing, stinging where it hit unexposed skin. I don’t quite remember what it was that I was doing, all I remember is the cold. I wasn’t dressed properly. Moreover, I think that I was only wearing my- Jim’s- sleep shirt. I frown at that memory. That’s not quite possible, is it? No. No, I was on a job, I was going out of the house because Jim had asked me to, and I had been on the roof the entire evening and well into the night.

My head hurts, and I reach for the bottle of water again to down the rest of it, hoping that a bit of hydration will help make it go away. I must be getting sick, I think, so I reach up a hand to place it against my forehead and yes, my skin is scalding hot. God, I’ve been on that rooftop for far too long.

“They’ll make you feel better,” Jim encourages, and I believe him because sugar lifts the spirit. So I open the lid again and take one out, looking at the little white, round piece of candy before popping it into my mouth. It tastes a little sour, but I assume that’s because of my oncoming fever. It’s falls apart in a sort of tiny melting grains as I chew on it, and something causes me to shiver with the taste.

 

Confused, I look down again, and they’re not candies.

They’re medicine.

That explains a lot.

 

“You’re going to need a lot of those to make it go away.”

 

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I eye the white plastic container, cradled in one hand as the other travels through my dirty blond hair. I don’t really feel like taking any more of those vile tasting things, but if Jim says they’ll make me feel better, I choose to believe him. So, I tilt the container and shake it a little until a few more come out, placing them on my tongue and chewing with a contorted expression. They’re dry, and I don’t think I can get them down without anything to drink, so Jim hands me another bottle of beer and I pop the cap and drown half of it. The combination tastes wrong, but then I suppose alcohol and medicine aren’t meant to be taken together.

I continue, another handful disappears, and eventually half of the container has ended up in the pit of my empty stomach. The taste it has left in my mouth doesn’t matter, because I know that it will go away soon enough.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable on a hard bed with barely enough covers to keep me warm at night, but Jim is lying next to me in his ever impeccable suit and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the man. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, and I suppose that while I get progressively more tired it is none of my concern in the very literal way. Actually, a bit of a dazed state conceals the constant pain in my head, so I suppose I should be grateful for that.

“There,” Jim whispers as I lay on my side and face him so I can see him better, and he does the same. We’re so close, but I don’t think I can feel his breath on my face. I don’t think I can feel anything except for the half-gone bottle of beer that has fallen over and now stains the already dirty sheets.

It’s a little too dark to really see Jim, but I feel too limp to really get up and reach out for the lamp on the bedside table.

 

“You’re such a good Tiger.”

 

I smile at him. I love him. After everything, I still do. But I don’t say it now, because I know that it won’t really change anything. I’ll say it to him very soon, though. When I see him again. I promise myself to tell him the very next time I see him, and I know that he knows.

I want to reach out to him and touch him before my eyes lid, but even breathing is difficult now because my chest feels so very heavy, and when I look down I see that he’s pushing me. But I don’t feel the hand necessarily, I feel the pushing and the pressure and I think he’s trying to shove me over the edge of the bed. Quizzically, I look up, vision vague and blurry and I don’t even think that it’s really Jim who lays next to me on the bed. I don’t think it was a job I was on yesterday evening. I don’t think the water bottle Jim gave me was water, or the candies really candy, or really medicine to make me feel better.

“They _will_ make you feel better,” Jim confirms as if he can read my thoughts, which he has been able to do for a very long time now, “Close your eyes.”

 

And that’s when the panic sets in.

I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to sleep. What if Jim is not there anymore when I wake up? What if I have done something wrong? Jim had promised to never leave me alone. Just like I had promised never to let anything happen to him.

I had promised.

“I’ll be here,” his voice sounds so far away now, and I realise that it doesn’t sound like his voice at all. But it’s still him, because he had promised to never leave me and he never has. He’s always been with me.

His shirt still smells like him, and even though I’ve worn it so many times since he wasn’t able to anymore, his scent still lingers like it does with no other piece of clothing he ever owned. Maybe that’s just me, maybe that’s my imagination just like Jim right here next to me but it’s something, and I don’t think I’ve ever clung to something surreal so desperately before.

And after all the tricks my mind has been playing on me, I can finally see how it really is, even though my eyes are heavy and drooping and I don’t think there is anything I can do about it.

I don’t live the ideal life.

I did, once. I lived a perfect life with Jim and did what I do best. But my Winchester hasn’t seen daylight for over a year and neither have I. At least, barely. My bed is hard and cold and my room is small and smells sour and disgusting, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a proper shower or a decent meal.

 

I’m broken.

 

No. No, I’m fine. I’m fine because I know where I’m going and it’s my own choice. Yesterday evening wasn’t the good time or place, because I want to be surrounded by the things I know and cherish when it’s all I have left. It’s not much, but I would share it with Jim again if I had the chance.

Jim has his arms around me as I feel dizzy, and I don’t feel cold anymore like before. It’s his scent, the one that I know so well. His cologne has its permanent place on the dirty kitchen sink, untouched and unused since the last time he had. My lips part to take in as much of that scent as I still can, because I know where I’m going, and I want to taste it on my tongue because I’m afraid that after this I will not be able to do so anymore.

 

And that’s just it; I’m afraid.

 

“I know you are,” Jim assures me, and I think I finally feel his breath on my cheek and eventually his lips against mine and the taste I have never found in anything else pierces the vile aftertaste of the medicine and the continual abuse of the alcohol, and as I close my eyes with the thought of finally giving in to the outstretched hands and letting them pull me over the threshold, breathing him in for one last time, my final exhale his name.

 

_"Come to daddy."_

 

_So nice to see your face again_

_But tell me will this ever end?_

_Don’t disappear_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised no more feels, but here I go... whoops.  
> (I'm still not quite happy with how this came out, it was much sadder when I came up with the idea but oh well)  
> I hope it's a bit understandable.  
> If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask :)


	7. Day 7: Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will upload a chapter every Monday :)

“I’m not wearing this.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Jim, it’s a _crop top_.”

“And a very pretty one.”

Sebastian ran both of his hands through his hair as he stood by the bed, Jim to the side; already fully dressed. He looked ridiculous, and Sebastian was sure that he himself would look even more ridiculous.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t like dressing up for you or whatever, but I don’t see why you couldn’t have gotten us something else.”

The criminal had insisted they wear something that would match, something that would make sense and was- in a way- quite ironic. Sebastian saw in what way the costumes were ironic, but this was Halloween for fuck sake, and he would rather saunter along the streets in his tiger onesie.

But no, Jim like this. And if Jim liked it, Sebastian was bound to like it too.

“Of course you don’t,” Jim replied petulantly, a sulking pout beginning to form on his lips, “Bus this will be so much fun, Sebby. So much fun.”

Sebastian wasn’t quite convinced, although that tiny quiver in the criminal’s plush bottom lip was known as a way of bargaining. And a damn good one at that.

“Please Sebby?”

And despite his best effort, Sebastian heaved a long, terrible sigh, but picked up a piece of leatherish clothing that seemed to be a skirt, and turned it around in his hands.

“Are you sure this is my size?”

Jim piped up, his gravely and sad mood evaporated all of the sudden, “Yes, it should fit perfectly.”

Throwing the fabric on the bed, Sebastian rose an eyebrow before he brought his hands to the waistband of his sweatpants to drag them down and drop them to the floor, stepping out of it. Even thought the blond wasn’t particularly looking at Jim, instead focussing on the clothes that lay out on the bed and seemed like it would expose more skin than a badly choreographed porn, he could still feel Jim’s eyes on him.

“D’you mind?” Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow at his boss in a silent suggestion for him to kindly sod off. But Jim simply stayed put, smiling up at the sniper with a smile that couldn’t pass as genuine, earning a roll of Sebastian’s eyes who went back to dressing.

 

The blond’s shirt went off, and he was left in nothing but his pants, earning sneaky sniggers from a certain consulting criminal. And another roll of Sebastian’s eyes. Agonizingly slowly, purposely trying to get on Jim’s impatient nerves, Sebastian started with the black tights- fucking _tights_ , what was he, a ballet dancer?- and sat on the side of the bed next to his boss to put them on. They fit surprisingly snugly, and would even be warm for this time of the month. Not that he would consider wearing them more often, not at all. He looked ridiculous enough in a suit and still he would rather wear _that._

 _Everything_ seemed visible in the tight lycras, but the marksman tried to ignore that as much as was humanly possible with an obviously amused criminal sitting on the side of your bed, eyes boring into you.

“Like what you’re seein’?” Sebastian couldn’t help but comment, turning slowly on his heels to show off every nook and cranny of his tights-clad legs and arse, just because he knew how Jim would react. And indeed, as he thought, he got a stoic look that was scarily similar to a glare, and after a short moment Jim rose an eyebrow as his frown turned into an amused little smile.

The criminal quipped back, “I just might,” and tilted his head just so.

Next for Sebastian was the skirt, and after a bit of squirming he indeed fit right into them, although his huge claves looked utterly ridiculous underneath them, and he was sure that any nemesis they would now come across would be highly amused by the sight rather than cringe in fear. Fan fucking tastic. But Jim seemed pleased, so that was something.

“See?” The raven-haired man drawled.

“Like a glove,” Sebastian had to admit, now staring at the short top. Was it supposed to be that short? This was something from the 90’s, how the hell was he supposed to know these animations. Jim had said it was ironic, but Sebastian didn’t understand how him dressing as a woman was ironic, to which Jim said that it wasn’t about the outfit or gender, but that it was about the persons who wore the outfits. Plus, Jim’s character apparently somewhat fitted his own identity. Or, name-wise anyway. James. No last name, just James.

Sebastian made a mental note to google these two characters as soon as he had the chance.

With a little effort, Sebastian managed to pull the small shirt over his head and found that it was actually rather wide on his frame, but he supposed that was how he was supposed to look.

“And now the wig.”

Sebastian’s head shot up, “Excuse me?”

Jim slipped from the bed, and sauntered to the corner of the room where a box was propped upon the chair that stood there. The man came back with for mentioned cardboard box- a rather big one, oh God- and opened it to reveal a long fuchsia wig. But it wasn’t even long as in vertical length, no. It seemed to stand sideways, from where Sebastian was looking at it.

“No way,” the blond protested with a shake of his head, holding up a hand to stop Jim from reaching up to put it over his hair, “No way I’m wearing that.”

“But it’s part of the costume, Sebby dear.”

“Then why aren’t you wearing one?”

Jim seemed to think that Sebastian must already have known that, because he rolled his eyes and pointed at the other box which Sebastian had feigned to see.

“Because mine,” the shorter man elaborated slowly, as if talking to an obnoxious little kid, “Is still in the box.”

Sebastian had to fight the urge to roll his eyes with a heavy sigh, feeling patronised by his very own boss. Not that such a thing never occurred, quite the contrary. Jim actually had a thing for talking in different kind of either high-pitched or low voices, and fancied alternating between the two as often as he deemed possible to make you feel like an utter moron while he was the one doing the voices. Drama queen.

Sebastian gave in, “Fine, c’mere with that thing.”

 

It took a few attempts to get the thing on his head- it was heavier than it looked and slicked all in one way with a sort of curl at the very end- but eventually Sebastian could move to the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe, running bright red as he finally saw himself.

“Well fuck me,” he breathed, frowning in humiliation.

Jim went to stand beside him, glancing approvingly into the mirror, a big mischievous smile curling at his lips that predicted certain calamities.

And seeming as Sebastian has seen him going about with explosives, he could only guess what this night was for. Most people trick or treat on Halloween, but then they were not most people, were they?

 

Jim’s wig was a dull kind of purple, and shorter than Sebastian’s. Obviously more of a man’s wig. Jim found that they both barely looked recognisable, and was pleased because he thought that would work in their advantage.

“Remember your lines, Tiger mine,” Jim purred as they made for the door, black boots and leather gloves on that ran up until just under their armpits, something they agreed on being and feeling ridiculous. Jim had a brown leather satchel with him, and when Sebastian asked what was in it, he wasn’t allowed to take a peek and Jim wasn’t keen on showing it to him. Sebastian had quickly googled both of the names, and came up with the idea that they missed the cat-like creature, but Jim had shrugged it off and discarded it as quite unnecessary under the pretence that it wouldn’t add anything and would only slow them down.

Which- if you have lived long enough with the criminal- you should know, means that there will be running involved. Even if that is a very rare thing.

 

On the streets, children are bouncing around in little costumes, going door-to-door and singing songs as their parents stalk after them with plastic bags of candy, but something tells Sebastian that they are not going to get any sweets out of their little trip.

Sebastian had a little piece of paper on which he had written his lines, and they went through it a few times as they sauntered through London. Not a very big surprise was that Sebastian got all the odd looks as they descended a set of concrete stairs into the humid underground station near their residence, and they sat in almost complete silence until Jim got out his phone and earphones, and handed him one of the two to plug in his ear. Sebastian knew it would be disco music, but when he had no idea where they were going, it was sort of relaxing to have something to concentrate on. Jim sat close, leaning into Sebastian’s side a little as Shirley & Co played their song, and it was hypnotising with the constant fluently lulling movement of the tube.

Since the sniper had no idea where exactly they were going, and to whom, he had secured his Beretta just under his skirt, pressing against his thigh as a sort of constant comfort that if anything were to go wrong, he still had his weapon. The other thigh held two extra magazines of bullets in case he would need it. Jim too, was armed; his Walther PPK- tiny gun which Sebastian tended to make fun of (that is, until Jim had enough of it and would shove it into his mouth to shut the sniper up)- neatly strapped to his chest, concealed by the normal-sized shirt.

 

Jim almost fell asleep a few times, which wouldn’t be convenient since only he knew where they were heading, and so Sebastian nudged him awake several times until Jim practically leapt out of his seat- yanking the earphones out of both of their ears- and skidded to the door of the tube. When they exit the underground station, only Jim can really recognise where they are. Sebastian had never been there before, but the criminal had. On a few occasions. He knew the route to some high-up drug lord’s den disguised as a house, but Jim had done enough business with them to know that nobody actually lived there.

They did, however, have little get-togethers.

Jim nearly skipped down the street with Sebastian in tow, dangling from his arm as the smaller man hummed a tune under his breath.

To any other given person, it would seem like they were actually trick or treating, since their bashful mood and their skipping about in costume. Jim was cheerful enough to be going door-to-door to gather sweets. But Sebastian knew better than to think that a ‘mundane’ act such as strutting through the streets on one particular night at the end of October would make Jim so gay. It was the thing that was about to happen that made the raven-haired criminal grin a particularly devious little grin, and left excitement in its wake. Sebastian, too, was excited. But mostly because he still had no idea what Jim was up to.

 

Suddenly, Sebastian’s boss stopped right in his tracks and tugged at the taller man’s shirt to steer him through a small gate and into a tiny garden that lead to a wooden door painted a dark blue. The man didn’t give Sebastian a warning or anything for what was about to happen, only pointed at the small piece of paper which had the blond’s lines written on it.

 

“Showtime,” Jim whispered as he reached out to ring the bell, waiting until the door was opened as he opened the satchel and revealed a red and white ball as big as his hand, cradling it in his palm.

 

The door was opened, and Sebastian received an elbow in his side to start his lines as he glanced up at the tall, bulky individual he knew as Kandinsky, but the man didn’t seem to recognise them. Yet.

“Prepare for trouble,” Sebastian mumbled, not as convincing as Jim.

“Make it double.”

“To add to the world; more devastation.”

“To smite all the people within our nation.”

The man still wasn’t getting it, but then they had changed the lines a little more to Jim's liking.

Sebastian continued, “To denounce the evils of truth and love.”

“To extend our reach to the stars above!” Jim gasped dramatically, forcing his elbow against Sebastian’s ribs again when he didn’t continue quickly enough.

“...Jessie.”

“James!”

“We don’t.. we’re not a team, we’re just- Ow, Jeez, alright. Team Rocket, blows you up at the speed of light.”

“Surrender is futile, we suggest you fight.”

And with Jim’s last, terribly dry comment, Sebastian could just about see his thumb inch for the big white button in the centre of a black stripe on the thing in his hands. As soon as he pressed it and threw the poké ball past the dumbstruck man into the hall, the Tiger and his Magpie were fleeing the scene like cats plunged in ice cold water, speeding out of the garden and into the streets until they were almost around the corner, angry voices yelling after them in their mayhem...

 

And the whole damn house exploded.

 

Sebastian grasped Jim by the middle to swing him into safety, turning his own back to the explosion and bowing protectively over the smaller criminal in case any objects would be flung with the impact. A deafening ring was send through the both of them, but as soon as that faded everything went dead quiet. Slowly but surely, neighbours appeared on the streets in their pyjamas, gasping and gossiping their horror to one another, rumours already spreading around.

 

Jim and Seb, on the other hand, were casually walking farther and farther away from the crime scene, arms linked as Jim hummed that same tune as before.

“You’re actually, legitimately bonkers,” Sebastian commented with a breathless grin, glancing down at the other.

"Boys just want to have fun," Jim sing-songed in agreement, “But you love it.”

That Sebastian couldn’t argue with.

“Can I at least pick the costumes for next year?”

The criminal looked up.

“You want to make this an annual thing?”

“I don’t see why not,” Sebastian shrugged.

“Oh you _like_ this. My, my.”

Kicking at the gravel, Sebastian pulled Jim a little closer against his side, wriggling his arm free to wrap it around the other man.

“I suppose it’s not too bad.”

“Very well, Basher,” Jim gave in amusedly, resting his head lightly against his sniper’s chest as they made for their respective shared home.

 

“Next year is your turn.”


	8. Day 8: Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for having been absent for so long, I have been feeling quite.. not so good, and my mood has never been one involving writing, but i'm back on track now and will try to upload every Monday again.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me if you are <3

It’s too bright. JM

Sebastian sighs and picks up another one, in a different colour. Really, they had all sorts around there. He glances back to the disinterested attendant who is picking at the exfoliating nail polish, bright pink flakes falling like snow to the glass counter. He snaps a picture to send to his boss, who has yet to decide which colour he wants his present to be.

He puts the item back as he wanders through the narrow isles again for a bit, waiting for his boss to react. It doesn’t take too long, but for a thing such a this it takes too long to Sebastian’s liking. He would much rather just buy whatever Jim had asked him to buy and leave the small shop.

It’s too narrow, and the ceiling is low. Thus low that when Sebastian had stepped over the threshold into the shop he had bumped his head against the door frame. It wasn’t such a surprise, seeming as it happens more often than not because of his height, but it still manages to annoy him.

His phone buzzes.

The colour doesn’t match the sleeve. JM

And only a moment later.

Think, Sebastian. JM

The sniper rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time for this kind of thing. He normally doesn’t do the shopping, whatever shopping that might be. Jim Moriarty was good at bribery, however, and he had been proposed an offer that he simply couldn’t refuse.

Do they really have to match? SM

Sebastian already knows what he will be getting back, so he goes into the isle he had previously been in to pick up yet a different colour. If Moran knew anything of shame, his cheeks would be bright red under the piercing stare that the shop attendant gives him from time to time, chewing her gum like she’s chewing the cud. A stereotypical clerk for a shop like this. High heels by the looks of it, piercings that even her tight tee shirt can’t cover, and it’s really something Sebastian doesn’t want to be looking at.

I have already told you multiple times that I want it to look good. JM

That makes Sebastian frown because who the hell is the criminal going to this kind of thing to. He really hoped it wouldn’t be anything other than him, because then he would have to start worrying for his own safety as well as Jim’s. That is, of course, because that would be the one thing to put Sebastian off, what makes him tick, gets him angry. And not only angry, jealous too. Maybe that was even worse than his fury.

Nobody’s gonna  see or notice but me. SM

Exactly. JM

The message comes rather quickly, and it makes Sebastian smile slightly to himself as he glances down at his mobile phone. So his boss was making a bit of an effort especially for him, huh? Although, it wasn’t much of an effort after all because _Moran_ was the person to be shopping for the items which _Jim_ wanted.

He wasn’t complaining, though. Don’t get him wrong. He was more than glad to run these particular errands if it meant that he would be getting a treat that faithful night. And knowing Jim, a surprise was awaiting him that he wouldn’t forget in a very, very long time.

They didn’t do this kind of thing often. At least, they hadn’t often yet, but Sebastian had a hunch that that was about to change.

There weren’t a lot of colours other than the dark blue he had just picked up, but he still made an effort of finding one. It wasn’t the right size, however. Sebastian had gotten exact descriptions and measurements to be able to pick what they would be needing. It was quite the big list, and the plastic basket hooked in the crook of his elbow was getting heavier the longer he hesitated. The more Jim hesitated and stubbornly kept to what he wanted.

Why not pick a different colour sleeve then? SM

To Sebastian, it seemed like the simplest of solutions. For good measure, he picks switches the colour of the for mentioned items and snaps a picture. Not exactly the same colour, but both dark blue and nearly the same so that should work.

Fine, fine. Pick that one then. JM  
Now, Merlot or Muscat. JM

\---

There are many differences between a bottle of Merlot and a bottle of Muscat. The first and most prominent distinction is, of course, the colour. Merlot is a red wine, made of red grapes, and Muscat is a white wine. Likewise, a Muscat is a much sweeter wine. Moreover, it is a desert wine, meant as an aperitif rather than a wine to drink just any given moment of the day, and it is as heavy as it is sweet.

Right up Jim’s street.

He has a sweet tooth, really. And a fine taste when it comes to food products and alcoholic drinks, but what he needed most was something sweet and strong, and something he knew Sebastian would like as well.

What’s the difference? SM

Jim huffs a small puff of air as he shakes his head and picks up the bottle of Muscat de Rivesaltes, the best in its kind, if you were to consult the criminal about something like this rather than the applying of the right doses of polonium. He makes a mental note to educate his dear sniper about the fine tastes of wine instead of the ales he chucks whenever the blond goes to the pub.

Atrocious, Jim thinks as he adds the bottle to his basket, which already holds a few other items. A tablet of seventy percent dark chocolate and a plastic little tray of velvet red grapes. It might seem suggestive, and truly it might just be, but they are also items that can be found in Moriarty’s apartment despite that day’s special occasion.

Jim rarely does the grocery shopping, but there were two shops that they had to visit before they closed, and Jim had suggested he go to Tesco if Sebastian chose the other. It was a mutual agreement, since the sniper wanted Jim to see him go where he was going, and Jim wanted to see Sebastian o where he was going.

So now they both wandered through unfamiliar territory, Jim had to walk through several isles before he actually found the shelves of wine, and he was surprised that they even sold Muscat. The chocolate was a little easier to find, because there was a rather large isle of sweets and chocolate belonged in that same corner of the supermarket.

Never mind, I’ve made my choice already. JM

Jim taps it out with a small grin, sending it and then quickly typing out another for consolation.

You’re going to love this one. JM

Apparently, Sebastian wasn’t very convinced, because only a few moments later does Jim receive a message from his right hand man.

You know I don’t like red wine. SM

It seems like Sebastian had absolutely no faith in Jim. Of course the criminal knows that, and of course he is considerate to a certain extend when it concerns his sniper. Just because the man is his employer doesn’t mean he has to drink the wine Jim prefers just because he prefers it. It has an amusing edge to it, because Jim reminds nights on which he had forced Sebastian to drink a glass of red wine with him just because he didn’t want to be the only one with a wine glass in his hand. Jim was selfish like that, indeed. But Moriarty knew that Sebastian would be obedient when it came down to simple things like drinking wine when he was in a bad mood, and trust him he had had terrible mood swings that entire day.

Of course I do Tiger, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. JM

Jim checks the contents of his basket one last time, adding a few random items when he passes them. Things like biscuits and marshmallows to make s’mores whenever he fancies. (Sweet tooth, remember?) And then he saunters towards the exit, sighing quietly when there is a rather large queue in front of the checkout, and only one attendant is going through people’s groceries.

Luckily, Jim always carries his earphones with him, so he waits with the Bee Gees flowing into his ears, humming softly along with the tunes.

Don’t forget the last thing on your shopping list, dearie. JM

\---

“Oh right, shit,” Sebastian mutters at the small counter, glancing down at his phone while he was just laying all the items he would purchase on the glass surface before the attendant. She looks bored, but still somewhat intrigued by all that he is buying.

_Oh God if only she holds her tongue or so help me I will cut it out._

“Sorry,” he mumbles to her as she begins typing the prices into the register, looking over every item as if she is trying to figure out however the hell they are supposed to be used, “I forgot something.”

So Sebastian turns and slips back between the isles. There’s no one there, the only customer who had been scanning the shelves only a few minutes ago gone already, not having purchased anything under the pretence of ‘just browsing’. Sebastian had just pretended that he hadn’t seen the man sneaking out a deep purple box of whatever the fuck it was. Pity crimes, not his area of expertise. Well, maybe a little, but certainly not his area of preference. He had long since put that past him.

And for the last item on the list there were several sizes and colours, too. Of bloody course.

_It’s just an accessory, for God’s sake._

Apparently, there were people who thought differently. Moran just picked out the one he thought to be decent size, and there were tiny studs along the leather edges, so that would only make Jim love it more. Anything even remotely shiny would do, that much he had learned over the years of his employment with London’s most dangerous criminal. A true magpie, that was certainly true.

The last item is scratched off the list, and Sebastian makes his way back to the counter where the woman has now scanned all the products, and is looking at the tall blond expectantly.

When Sebastian adds the collar, that is the very first moment since he walked in that he actually blushes –or something that looks like it- and he averts his gaze to the items on the shiny counter.

“Would’ya like anythin’ else with tha’ sweetheart?” She asks him, and Sebastian briefly raises an eyebrow at the overly thick accent, something he cannot quite place.

“No, I’m alright,” He assures her with a nod as she scans the piece of leather.

She keeps her eyes locked with Sebastian’s, who is too stubborn and has too big of a sense of pride to look away. “Bag?”

“Yes please,” Sebastian quips back, shifting from one foot to the other. He wasn’t nervous, he was just getting slightly agitated because the woman was now packing the items for him, agonizingly slowly. He pulls out his card to pay while she is at it, but even by the time that he is done with that does she still have to add several things to the plastic bag.

“So,” she begins, and Sebastian braces for the worst, “Gonna have fun t’night, aye?”

Sebastian purses his lips as he glanced away, refusing the urge to roll his eyes with an overly dramatic sigh. “If you must know, yes.”

The woman –her nametag say Emily- seems happy with that answer, but a certain gleam in her eyes tells Sebastian that is not all. She has almost finished packing up his purchases, and Sebastian figures he had much rather done it himself but Emily is already doing it and _Manners, Tiger. Manners._

So he waits patiently until the question comes, and the packing is done, therefore he scoops it up with one hand, the plastic cutting slightly into the crooks of his fingers. It’s heavy, this must be a goddamn year’s supply.

“I bet y’r girlfriend is gonna be really fucking happy with that, sweetheart,” She muses, obviously very smug about the comment she had just made.

But Sebastian sees an opportunity to wipe that smirk off her face once and for all without burying her six feet under, stone cold, and cocky as he can be he takes his chance to have this attendant’s head swimming.

“Oh yeah,” He drawls back at her, cocking his head as he back up towards the exit of the store, “My boyfriend’s gonna love this.”

And with that and a cheeky wink, Sebastian slips out of the shop and into the fairly quiet streets, taking a deep breath of far less heavy air than it was inside of the ‘toystore.’ The blond gets his phone out, balancing the bag on his left hand as he types with his right, simultaneously wondering if Jim is already home. All he had to do was get something to eat, something light and sweet. Knowing Jim, Sebastian can trust him to follow those exact requests whenever it involves sweets and such.

This better be good, sir. Or else I’m never going in there again. SM

Only mere seconds later, the marksman’s phone buzzes in his hand as he makes his way down the street and towards their shared apartment, watching how the sky was darkening gradually the lower the sun sunk behind the buildings. He huffs a chuckle at the message, but boy can he agree.  
  


Oh it will be. It will be magnificent. JM


	9. Day 9: Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will upload a chapter every Monday :)
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A TRIGGER WARNING OF MILD SEXUAL HARASSMENT  
> It does end well, however. Moreover, it ends pretty damn cute if I say so myself shhh
> 
> Sorry for all caps, but I don't want anyone reading this who had rather not because of reasons <3

“So that would define us as ‘friends’, in official terms.”

Sebastian glances sideways to where Jim is sat beside him, face turned up to the sun and sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. He would look arrogant to most, and he could really be that, but not to Sebastian.

“Sure we’re friends, don’t be ridiculous.”

Jim turns to the blond, giving him a once over from his still damp hair to his mud-clad shoes, and smiles.

“Good,” Jim’s grin widens, to which Sebastian raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t get all excited now, I’m only introducing you to my mates.”

“A harem?” Jim asks mockingly innocently, receiving a gentle elbow in his ribs from the other boy.

“No, doofus. My _team_ mates.”

That is what they are waiting for, on the benches at the edge of the football field. Sebastian had had a match that afternoon, and Jim had come to watch him play because he had never really seen such a match and the simple fact that a friend was there too made it all the more appealing. Not, of course, the fact that it had been raining that morning, and that the field was now wet and muddy which meant that the players would be most likely to slip and get all mucky and wet. It did prove to be a rather amusing if not delectable sight.

Sebastian had been decent to shower immediately, so he could spend some time with Jim before the others would come out of the changing rooms cheering their victory.

The blond had to admit he had not expected Jim to come see his match, so it had been a very pleasant surprise to see those familiar dark eyes scrutinizing him from afar. Right after the game he had jogged over to talk to him, but his teammates had already been trying to drag him to the showers so they could freshen up and go to the pub as soon as possible.

“Right, right,” Jim sing-songs teasingly, readjusting his sunglasses and positioning them in his hair to squint at Sebastian. He was still pale. He was always pale, however long he would sit in the sun. Either that or he would turn out a lobster, and with that came a tremendous pain he didn’t fancy enduring.

Just when Sebastian is about to shove him off of the bench in a teasing fashion, intending to land him in the muck, voices erupt from behind them and demand their attention.

“Basher!” Comes one of the voices, and both boys look around to see a shorter blond come jogging with an ecstatic grin curling at his lips, “We’re gonna go to the Hook for a change, agreed?”

Sebastian shrugs with a nod, “Sure thing, John.”

It is as if John only realises Jim is there when the latter clears his throat ever quietly, cocking his head to the teen.

“John, this is Jim,” Sebastian introduces with a pointed look of amusement directed at the Irish boy, “Jim, John Watson. Captain.”

John outstretches his hand with a wide grin showing a range of perfect teeth, and Jim narrows his eyes momentarily before he reaches out to give the offered hand a brief shake with a polite, “Nice t’meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Jim, huh? Think I’ve heard that name before,” John flashes Sebastian a mischievous smirk and getting a look of warning in return.

Jim says, “Oh yeah?” And he half turns to Sebastian, “It had better be something good, Bastian.”

Sebastian ignores this as best as he is able, focusing on John instead of Jim, “It okay if he joins us?”

The other blond nods as he jabs a thumb at the rostrum behind him, where a tall, dark-haired teen sits waiting with a small-looking blond girl who seems to be chatting away without getting any real response.

“Of course, Sherlock and Molly are joining us, too.”

“Sherlock?” Sebastian teases, “Sure he can handle a bit of booze? He’s such a light-weight, which-“ he stops John when he goes to protest by holding up a finger with a grin, “Was proven last time you took him along, John. Don’t fool yourself.”

The both snicker at the truth of it, and Sebastian rises from the bench and holds out a hand for Jim to follow as they walk back towards the rostrum to meet the other two, and slowly the other players file out of the changing room and join them.

 

Sebastian takes his time to introduce Jim to each and every one of them, and Jim tries to remember all the names with the faces that practically fly by. Sherlock and Molly first, who he knows vaguely because they are all in the same year and see each other in the halls of their school every once in a while. Molly he had talked to before, a nice girl with the nervous-ish chatting ability of a cat in heat. Sherlock he knew somewhat, but mostly because he seemed to be an expert in subjects that interested Jim too. Other than that he saw him in Advanced Mathematics every week, Jim didn’t know him at all. Introvert, much like him.

And then there were Victor and Mason, who came out of the changing rooms first, followed by Ben, Mike and Carl. Greg went straight for Molly, who was eager to chat with someone who actually reciprocated her bashful babbling.

More accompanied them, and Jim didn’t bother to remember most of the names but for the boys who might just become important or who seemed like the least insufferable of the lot. And soon enough they are leaving the field behind and set course towards the for mentioned pub, Jim idly keeping by Sebastian’s side. It’s not that he felt like he didn’t belong, but he still felt more comfortable around someone he really _knew._

 

Perhaps it had been a little too early for a pint, but when they entered the pub, there were multiple people already there. Besides, they were with quite a big group, so they almost filled the pub entirely with the team and disciples.

Jim promised himself not to give into peer pressure and steer clear of alcohol, save from the first pint the teammates chugged, at which he sipped slowly. He didn’t like the taste per se, but the slow buzz it seemed to grant him wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Yet Jim knew, he only liked fruity cocktails and hard liquor, but the former he didn’t want to order when around a crowd like this, and the latter he couldn’t get because of his age.

The raven-haired boy discovered that, despite his former belief, John Watson was quite easy to talk to, even if the teen seemed more interested in the one with the dark curls. Sebastian told Jim that some kind of tension had been going on between the two for ages, but that John never had the guts to act on it and that Sherlock didn’t show any interest in general. Or so everyone thought. But Jim could see, quite clearly, what others apparently did not. Sneaky sideways glances, innuendos that probably nobody of lower intellect than the teen himself understood, and above all, his body language. Really, Jim could deduce within two minutes that this was obvious pining, mental torture. But then, Jim was quite the expert when it came to that; silent admiration.

Despite his disgust towards beer, Jim nursed his pint slowly, watching as glass after glass was passed around, and the teammates gradually got more intoxicated. It was amusing to Jim, it really was. Greg got more flirtatious towards Molly, who got giggly and shy all of the sudden. Bets were made as everybody noticed how John and Sherlock seemed to get closer throughout the evening, talking animatedly and leaning in over the music with liquid courage in their bellies.

 

Carl, in contrast to every other teammate of Sebastian’s, was the only one to get annoying when drunk. And Jim was the subject of his taunting. Apparently, Powers had discovered that the pint Jim had clutched between pale fingers was still his first, which he had been trying to get down for a little under two hours already. Carl found this preposterous, allegedly, and came to sit next to Jim once Sebastian had excused himself to go to the restroom.

“Bottoms up, Jimmyboy,” Powers drawls, the stench that was his breath reaching Jim in an instance, and the latter turned his face away to be out of reach of the terrible smell of alcohol and God-knows-what.

“That is not my correct name, thank you very much,” Jim quips back, keeping his eyes stubbornly on Greg and Molly, if only to not have to look at Carl. He doesn’t want to be indignant about it, but it really does make him cringe away from him more than his presence overall already does.

“You haven’t even finished your first pint!” Carl accuses Jim of.

Jim back talks by telling Carl that, “And you have had too many already.”

A barking laugh comes from the student, and he puts his arm nonchalantly around Jim’s shoulder as if they had been mates for centuries. Carl picks up the other boy’s glass and brings it to Jim’s lips as if he is incapable of drinking himself, tilting the bottom of the glass so Jim is forced to arch his neck and chug what liquid touched his lips or it would overtake his upper lip and flow straight into his nostrils. Jim didn’t prefer choking over being force-fed the remnants of his pint.

He panted once there were but a few drops of beer left, hands pushing and shoving at Carl’s chest, but the latter was much taller and muscular than he was, which was a great advantage for Carl. If others noticed, they didn’t interfere, and Jim now scanned the pub for a glimpse of familiar dirty blond.

A hand slid up Jim’s thigh and he yelps, another hand twining in his hair as the empty glass was left abandoned on the table. Carl’s breath ghosted across his cheek as the teen came closer, leaning into his side and invading Jim’s personal space like no other had ever dared.

“Good boy,” Powers purrs, and slick lips land on the curve of Jim’s jaw, his head being tilted back to grant the bully more access.

“Stop that,” Jim protests as he tries to jam his elbow into Carl’s ribs, but somehow the boy had positioned them so that Jim was completely at Carl’s mercy. Jim’s struggling is in vain, utterly futile in the other teen’s grip.

Carl presses his mouth again and again to Jim’s jaw, leaving a wet, disgusting trail of saliva in his wake. Jim can feel the warm hand snake up his thigh, and he tries to land futile punches wherever he can. Jim is pinned against Carl’s body, mashed against the back of the booth, and his yells for helps are swallowed up by the thumping music. Fucking happy hour.

Jim can feel his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, anger flaring in his gut as he wants to wack Carl off but can’t. Carl’s mouth finds Jim’s, and the latter is pushed back into the booth with much more force than previously, now suddenly horizontally pressed into the cushions. Jim turns his head away, and Carl is momentarily caught off guard as he wipes his mouth on the fabric over his shoulder.

That is the moment where suddenly the weight of Carl’s body is lifted off of him and a baritone voice is yelling over the music, tossing the intoxicated Powers around. Thank God for Sebastian, Jim thinks as he scrambles out of the booth, all eyes on the three of them until Moriarty decides to slip away and out of the pub. Outside, he leaned against the wall beside the entrance, immensely grateful for the cool breeze and brick behind his back.

Jim wipes his mouth again with the sleeve of his shirt, spitting on the ground and trying to block out the noises coming from within the pub as well as the anger bringing his blood to a boil.

Only moments later, does the door swing open, and a concerned looking Sebastian comes out, looking around him in a quite bewildered fashion until he sees his friend.

“Jesus, Jim,” he breathes as he steps forward and immediately wraps his arms around the smaller teen, and Jim finds that this sort of physical contact is so much more welcome than that of the insufferable Carl Powers.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Carl is a fucking nutter.”

Jim sighs, and nuzzles into the taller boy’s embrace, “So I’ve noticed.”

Others had followed Sebastian, and now exited the pub to gather around them, stuttering apologies and profanities towards his harasser.

Jim feels safe within the strong, tight confines of Sebastian’s arms, face pressed into his chest to drown out the smell of Carl’s breath by inhaling Sebastian’s cologne.

John Watson is the first to really come through to Jim as he puts a hand on his shoulder, and the Irish boy looks up to meet one pair of icy blues after the other. “You alright, mate?” John asks, giving his shoulder a light squeeze, and Jim nods.

“Yes, I’m fine, just disgusted.” God knows what Carl would have done if it hadn’t been for Sebastian. Powers was utterly plastered, and handsy at that. But he was safe now, surrounded by what he considered to be friends.

Molly and Greg gave him reassuring pats on the shoulder, not able to do anything other than that because Sebastian still had him in a protective grip.

“I’m gonna go home, I think.”

“I’ll walk you there,” Sebastian immediately insists gently, carding a hand ever softly through Jim’s hair. It’s oddly reassuring, and it feel kind of nice to be caressed so softly instead of the hard hands with which Carl had tossed him about.

“Okay.. Yeah, it’s not so far from here, you should be back in about ten minutes.”

Jim said his goodbyes, kind words reassuring him as he parted from the group, arm linked with Sebastian’s.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” Sebastian says softly as they arrive at Moriarty’s home, facing each other on the porch of the darkened house.

“You didn’t do this, you helped me.”

Sebastian chuckles a little glumly, “Yeah, gave him a good ol’ beating after you ran out.”

Jim grins as he feels a little more at ease with that fact, and leans in to hug Sebastian tightly.

“You’re a fantastic friend.”

 

Back at the pub –it had taken a little longer to bring Jim home than they had expected, because they had spent about half an hour chatting in the dim light of a street lantern- Sebastian slipped onto the empty barstool beside John, who gave him a companionable pat on the back.

“You really went all out on Carl there,” Watson jokes with a chuckle, jabbing a thumb at the battered and bruised drunk, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding, “I think you broke his nose. You must really like the lad, eh?”

Sebastian shrugs, scrubbing a hand over his face, “I do, I do. He’s my friend.”

“God Sebastian, look at yourself.”

Moran does, glancing at his own reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of booze behind the bar, then looking over at John with the questioning raise of an eyebrow.

John speaks as if it were undeniable, “You are so _obviously_ in love with him.”

Sebastian groans, folding his arms atop the bar and dipping his head to lean his forehead against his wrist. He knows very well what John is on about, he could see it in his own reflection. Clear as day. No going around that. Apparently, he was more transparent than he had initially hoped he was.

“I know,” he sighs, “Get me a pint.”


End file.
